Unlucky Number Six
by Fever Dream
Summary: Courier Six is captured in the Nipton Lottery and claimed as a bed slave by none other than Vulpes Inculta. She struggles to survive, to regain her freedom and claim a vengeance none of the Legion will ever forget. Dark themes, potentially triggering. Courier/Vulpes Inculta, Courier/Boone
1. Return to Sender

_Author's Note: As this story takes place in the context of the Legion, it delves into some grim and disturbing territory. Please be aware that some of the material here is graphic and may be upsetting or triggering for some readers. The 'M' rating here is definitely not for show. _

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><p>Six heard the first scream while she was brushing her teeth.<p>

She spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the cracked sink, washed it down and peeked out the door of her boarding house room, anticipating that it'd be just another dust-up between Nipton's prostitutes and a powder ganger short on caps and long on excuses.

Instead, she saw Jeb come shuffling down the passageway. His face was unshaven and thin tufts of hair stuck up at the sides of his balding head. "There's Legion out there. Lots of 'em."

Six paused, trying to summon up an image to go along with this new word but nothing came to mind. Recently, she'd discovered that she was embarrassingly ignorant of a lot of facts that other people seemed to take for granted. Judging from Jeb's panic, however, this Legion coming to town wasn't a cause for celebration.

"What do you figure they want?" she asked.

"Not a clue," the old man said. "Maybe they're looking for soldiers. Nipton ain't got no loyalty to the NCR. They want 'em, they can have 'em. Maybe they'll take some of those damn powder gangers too. Those boys been nothing but trouble to this town."

Six frowned. She'd met a couple of the soldiers down at the Good Grub, the local greasy spoon. One of them couldn't have been older than nineteen, his face still rutted with acne scars, the wispy beginnings of a moustache shadowing his lip. He'd bought her a beer, trying to impress her and she'd humoured him a little while, so he wouldn't lose face in front of his friends. He'd seemed sad and homesick, talking about California as if it was a paradise on earth. He'd mentioned his mother more than once.

Six couldn't picture a decent old guy like Jeb selling that poor kid down the river, but maybe she was just being naive, fooling herself. Not every town was Goodsprings.

Six ducked back into her hotel room. She laced up her boots, pulled on her jacket, threw the last of her few possessions into her knapsack and strapped her pistol into the holster at her hip. Time to leave this town in the dust. She wasn't looking for trouble - she already had more than her fair share.

She hurried along the corridor and down the winding wooden staircase to the lobby, where she found Ma Bradley talking to three of the most bizarrely dressed men she'd ever seen. They wore clunky breastplates, silly red capes and leather skirts that left their thighs bare to the dust and the desert sun.

Ma turned, a smile plastered on her face. "We're going to a town meeting out in the square. Nothing to worry about!"

Ma's chirpy, too-bright manner made for a stark contrast with the grim, sun-burned faces of the Legion men. They gathered all the guests of the boarding house together – Jeb and Willis and the three girls who roomed in the basement and took 'gentlemen callers'. They dragged the youngest of them up the stairs, her blonde braids waggling against her shoulders, her freckled cheeks flaming with tears.

Six's hand went to the pistol at her hip.

Ma shook her head, giving her a reproachful look. "Nothing for us to worry about," she murmured. "Not our fight."

Six wanted to ask whose fight it was, but by then, the Legion men were herding them all into the square, where maybe two hundred others had assembled in front of Nipton Town Hall. Their eyes were turned to the veranda, where the Legion men stood with their rifles and machetes, mangy dogs stalking around them and baring their teeth.

Their leader seemed to be the one in the oddest and most terrible attire, a skinned dog draped over his head and shoulders like a hooded cloak. Dark sunglasses obscured his eyes as he surveyed the crowd, but from the tight line of his mouth, Six could tell that he had nothing but contempt for what he saw.

When he spoke, he had a soft, silvery voice and a chilly authority that reduced the crowd's mutterings to silence.

"Degenerates of Nipton, I have come to sit in judgement upon your many sins. For too long, we have watched in repugnance as you traded in flesh and treachery, a town of whores selling themselves to the highest bidder. Now, by the command of mighty Caesar, we have come to purify this filthy brothel."

A puffed-up man in a white suit and a lariat tie waddled officiously down the townhall stairs. He took off his straw hat, holding it over his heart and mopped his brow with the back of his fat hand.

"Vulpes Inculta – that's your name, isn't it? Of the Frumentarii, I believe? I spoke to Aurelius and he said -"

Vulpes tilted his head at the man. To some this might have looked like pity, but Six saw only condescension and a faint, horrible amusement. Her grip tightened on the pistol beneath her jacket and she turned off the safety.

"I give you the 'Right Honourable' Mayor of Nipton. I imagine you all know him well. He was the pimp who sold you, growing fat and smug as he counted his profits."

"This wasn't our deal," the mayor protested. "This isn't what Aurelius promised me. You can't -"

"But we can. And we have," Vulpes said. "Vermin of Nipton, do you know what happens when Legion soldiers show disloyalty? I will tell you. Some of the men are punished and some are made to watch. Today, in the grand tradition of New Vegas, we will have a Lottery to determine which among you will be lucky and which among you will be...less fortunate. When you receive your number, please take care to hang on to it. We wouldn't want you to do something rash that might ruin your chances."

Legion men began to circulate, handing out torn slips of paper as tickets. The crowd stirred, agitated, but each of the townspeople took their ticket. Some inspected it carefully, looking at both sides, rubbing their fingers over the paper. Some turned to their fellows, comparing numbers.

"21."

"I'm 739."

"Good numbers. Pity the fella who's got 13."

Others stared at their ticket in disbelief, as if it was the revelation they'd been waiting for instead of a few numbers printed on a stub of paper.

One of the legionaries thrust a ticket into Six's hand.

Number 66.

Why wasn't she surprised? The number '6' had been dogging her a long time.

Six ripped the ticket in half, letting the pieces flutter to the ground.

The legionary who'd handed her the ticket turned around, brandishing his machete. "Hey! What the -"

She pulled her gun.

"I'm not playing your sick fucking game. None of us are."

She shot him in the neck and he stumbled backward, blood burbling from his throat and streaming down his leather chest plate. He toppled against Ma Bradley, clutching at her skirt, smearing the white cotton with red.

"What are you waiting for?" Six hollered at Ma, at Jeb, at Willis, at anyone who would listen. "Fight them!"

Instead, Willis lunged forward and tackled her to the dirt.

She kicked and struggled beneath him. "Get off me, chicken-shit. This is your only chance and you're going to piss it away? For a ticket in a fake lottery. What do you think you're going to win?"

"She ain't from Nipton!" she heard Jeb holler. "She ain't one of us!"

Something heavy struck the back of her skull and she fell into a dark place like a shallow grave.


	2. You Belong to Me

Waking up with nothing worse than a headache was the first surprise.

The second was the metal collar digging into her neck. While Six had been unconscious, someone had stolen her snug Vault 21 jumpsuit and stuck her in an itchy brown shift that reminded her of a potato sack.

There was a man sitting in the armchair across from her, wearing a smugly patient expression, his hands tented together before him.

It wasn't until he spoke in the same silken tones, that she recognized him as Vulpes Inculta, the one who'd instituted the Lottery. Without his sunglasses and a dog carcass draped over his head, he had a wary, sharp-featured face, one that might have been handsome if it weren't so sinister.

"_Ave_. I suppose I should congratulate you, profilgate."

"Did I win a prize?"

Vulpes' eyes glimmered like glass. His narrow lips shaped themselves into a smile.

"No. You can't win the Lottery if you don't play. Nevertheless, your tactic intrigued me. You might have stood a chance if you hadn't been forced to rely on such pathetic cowards. If it makes you feel any better, we crucified the one who hit you with the plank."

Somehow, that didn't give Six much comfort. "I'm surprised you haven't crucified me."

The thin smile didn't waver. "Did you wish me to?"

"Not particularly."

"A sensible attitude. It would have been appropriate to kill you, seeing as you shot a legionary. Fortunately for you, the one you murdered wasn't popular. Besides, I have a grudging admiration for courageous stupidity."

"Excuse me if I don't seem flattered."

His hand brushed over the scars near her hairline, where Doc Mitchell had extracted two 9mm rounds. It took every ounce of her discipline not to swipe his hand away.

"How did you earn these, I wonder? With more foolishness?"

Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe just plain bad luck. Six didn't remember why she'd signed up to be a courier or promised to deliver some fancy poker chip to a city awash in the bloody things. She couldn't even recall her name, just some unlucky number taken off a missing package.

All she knew about her life before Goodsprings was that the deck had been stacked against her from the very beginning. It didn't look as though this latest hand was going to play any differently than the others.

"Those silly old things? Don't remember the story. Must have slipped my mind."

Vulpes arched an eyebrow, his face carved in shadow, all straight lines and stark angles. He probed one of the wounds by way of experiment, prodding his finger into the raw flesh.

This time, Six couldn't stop herself from flinching, shutting her eyes and sucking in air between clenched teeth.

"You must be terribly forgetful," he said.

Six gave him a long, hard look, one she hoped he'd find meaningful.

"I remember the important things."

She wouldn't forget him and what he'd done to Nipton. That might not mean much now, but later, when she had armour on her back and a pistol curled snug in her fist – then it'd be a promise.

He stroked a hand over her hair absentmindedly, as casually as if he were petting one of the Legion dogs. The touch was gentle but there was no kindness behind it, nothing but a sadistic pleasure in being able to twist her to his whims.

"Good. I want the lesson of Nipton to stay with you. Consider it a gift."

The collar chafed at her neck. Six figured he'd probably been toying with it while she'd been unconscious, adjusting it to his own precise specifications. A control freak, if she'd ever seen one. He knew that power was all in the details.

"Speaking of gifts, would it be too much to ask for my clothes back?"

She tried to play the question off as a casual request, as if she expected that he'd hand back her gear and let her go skipping off into the sunset. He'd seemed to enjoy her impudence before or at least, it'd presented him with an amusing challenge. Maybe he'd honour the request, just to defy all her expectations.

Vulpes shifted back in his seat, resting his hands on his knees. "Right now, I expect that your mannish costume is burning on a tire pile, alongside what remains of your Mayor. Your new attire is much more pleasing and suitable to a slave."

Six blinked. "And this nice piece of jewellery around my neck?"

"Quite an ingenious device. I'd advise you not to try to flee. It wouldn't end well."

She felt a sudden rush of hopelessness. "Why did you do this? Nipton doesn't have anything for you."

"You think I desired to raid this town? I suppose I should have expected such petty-mindedness from a degenerate."

"Then explain it to me. Make me understand."

"I imagine you think that I enjoy the slaughter. I can assure you, it isn't so. Exterminating profligates is a dull, messy business. No, what I savour is the message. The lesson, as it were."

"In other words, you murdered a bunch of civilians to spread terror."

A slight crease appeared between Vulpes' eyebrows, the only hint of anger his face betrayed. "I find your manner of speech presumptuous and unwomanly. I've heard enough. Stand and disrobe. I would look at you."

She fixed him with an incredulous stare. "What?"

"I wish to inspect my property, slave. Now kindly do as you're told or I shall strip you myself and I will not be gentle."

Six gritted her teeth together, rising unsteadily to her feet and peeling off her shift. She stared at the floral pattern on the wallpaper as Vulpes leaned forward in his seat, surveying her nakedness with icy eyes.

His face was impassive, as cold and distant as a desert moon, but when he spoke at last, there was a faint catch in his voice that hinted at the man beneath.

"You have a woman's breasts and a woman's cunt. Yet you don't understand a woman's place. It is unfortunate. I shall have to instruct you."

Vulpes nodded towards the rumpled bed at the far end of the room. "Position yourself, profilgate. On your hands and knees."

Six gave a hard swallow and crawled on to the bed.

It wasn't until she saw the photo in a cracked frame on the nightstand that she realized where she was. To cap off his triumph, Vulpes planned to fuck her in the mayor's bedroom while Nipton burned.

She heard him loosening the straps of his armour, the sound of metal and leather slipping to the floor.

His hands caressed her hips, his breath a soft insinuation on her shoulders. For a second, she entertained the hope that he would be gentle, that it would be easy to close her eyes and forget him.

He thrust into her hard and deep, giving a sigh of pleasure as he sheathed himself inside her. Her startled yelp only seemed to encourage him, his hips pounding against the fleshy curve of her ass.

His arms snaked around to grasp her breasts, giving them a soft squeeze as if he were testing the ripeness of fruit.

"Like a dog takes a bitch," she said. "Fitting."

Vulpes chuckled at that, a sound like a stone hitting the bottom of a dry well.

"You enjoy playing the bitch."

He rubbed the tips of her nipples, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers.

Six cringed, although she found it difficult to know whether it was from pain or embarrassed pleasure.

"Your nipples are hard," he murmured. "I hadn't thought to please you, degenerate."

"I'm cold."

"Something we have in common."

He flipped her onto her back, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath their shared weights. She stared up at the plaster ceiling, trembling, as he parted her thighs and entered her again, slowly this time so that she felt every inch of him. He pumped into her, his eyes locked on hers even as she refused to meet his gaze, to acknowledge that he was on her and in her.

His voice came like a rasp of silk against skin. "You are permitted to touch me."

It was an order phrased as a request. She stroked her hands over his shoulder blades and the muscles of his back and tried to pretend that he was someone else but she couldn't remember a lover, man or woman. She was sure that she wasn't a virgin, but she might as well have been for all the good it did her.

"Your legs. Wrap them around me."

Vulpes hauled her legs up and she tightened them around his hips, feeling his thrusts working into a steady rhythm, building momentum. She squirmed beneath him, angry at her body's betrayal, the shameful heat searing between her thighs even as he violated her.

His breathing became ragged, tortured by pleasure and he hissed a few words into her ear. They might have been terms of endearment or they might have been curses – she didn't speak a word of Latin.

His fingers dug into her shoulders, his body juddering into hers and he sunk his teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to draw a gasp from her lips.

Vulpes lay still for only a moment, catching his breath, before he extracted himself from her arms. He struggled to his feet, his cock still swollen and slick with cum. Bending down, he plucked her shift from the floor and used it to dry himself.

"That was -" He paused, as if rifling around for the most appropriate adjective. "Diverting."

With that pronouncement, he began to dress.

Six lay crucified on the mattress, his seed trickling out of her, dribbling over the insides of her thighs and onto sheets, a sickening warmth after the scalpel precision of his touch.

Vulpes looked at her, his eyes narrowed, his face inscrutable. He seemed to want her to say something but she had no words for him, just her hatred and a shame that felt heavier than her body or his.

He sighed.

"Rise, woman, and clothe yourself. I wish to show you Nipton transformed."

Six dressed quietly, ashamedly, turning her face to the wall so that he couldn't see her breasts quiver as she bowed over or the way her skin still glistened with his sweat.

The coarse brown dress covered her nakedness, but it didn't give her the relief that she'd anticipated. It was a confession of what she'd done to live, what she'd keep doing to survive, until she'd spotted a way out or a means of claiming her vengeance.

Vulpes guided her along the ravaged streets of Nipton, her arm tucked through his as though they were out for a stroll on a Sunday afternoon. The odours of burning rubber and cooked flesh seared her nostrils.

He gestured toward a row of heads impaled on sharpened sticks. "Behold. The lucky losers."

Six didn't recognize any of the faces, but they hardly looked human anymore. More like rotten fruit.

"You have a sense of humour."

"I do, curiously enough. It's not a quality that many of your kind appreciate."

The crucified still writhed on their crosses, wracked by the pain of drawing breath. Some of them muttered to themselves or strained at their bindings, trying to work their way free but only succeeding in rubbing their wrists bloody against the ropes.

"You've made your point. We all understand," she said. "Let them die now."

"To learn is to suffer. What good would I accomplish if I didn't offer them the chance to consider their fate?"

She stared up at the glazed eyes of a powder ganger. A string of saliva dangled from his lips and his head was thrust back, as if to cast an accusing stare at the wide, grey sky.

"They're breathing corpses. There's nothing more you can show them."

Vulpes rubbed his chin, seeming to deliberate on this. Amidst this horror, his composure and the solemn nobility of his face were terrifying, even more inhuman.

"Very well. In the spirit of compromise, I'll shoot one. You may have the honour of choosing the fortunate man or woman."

Hearing this, the crucified began to croak and murmur, rocking against the wooden planks at their backs. There were so many of them and they all wanted the gift of a bullet.

Vulpes smirked at her, clearly enjoying his gambit. "Quickly now. Choose or I may rescind my offer."

Six pointed to the one who looked the youngest, although it was hard to tell with the dust on their faces.

"Her."

He strode over, pressed his pistol against the girl's forehead and pulled the trigger, spattering her brains across the back of the cross.

"Be certain to take a good look at the rest of them," he said. "They despise you now, perhaps even more than they hate me. I hope you will remember that the next time you're tempted to indulge your pity."

The next few days were a haze of travel through the barren wastes, encampments laid down and hastily broken as the legionaries marched eastward towards the Colorado. Six was chained with the other slaves, a motley group of powder gangers, caravaners and townspeople, but they did little more than exchange glances for fear that they would be accused of plotting against their captors.

Six was relieved to note that Vulpes had his hands full with his command. He seemed content to ignore her for the time being, although she was always aware of where he was lurking, always finding his outline at the edge of her vision.

That changed after they crossed the river, when they arrived at the place that the other slaves referred to as simply "the Fort". The legionaries had another name for it, some high-faluting Latin word, but however they tried to dress it up, it was simply a glorified encampment, one that had the advantage of being situated on a hill with a wooden palisade around it.

Shortly after they entered the Fort, two legionaries came for her. They took her to a tent in the middle of the camp and tucked her into the bedroll there as if they were wrapping up a present.

When they'd left, Six shimmied her way out and started to explore.

There wasn't much to be discovered. She found a footlocker with dried radroach meat, a flask of water and some ammunition stowed inside – but sadly, no guns or anything sharp and stabby.

There were a few Pre-War books and magazines hidden in another locked box, items that Six suspected were against protocol, but they wouldn't do her much good unless she was looking to pass the time.

She crept over to the tent flap and peeked out, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. Outside, she saw a wooden structure that appeared to be an arena and a large whetstone, where a heavily-armoured legionary stood, sharpening a blade. Eyeing the massive sword in his hands, she decided that she'd prefer to stay in the tent, thanks.

Six scooped up one of the books and curled into the bedroll, making herself as small as she possibly could.

The book was on the history of Las Vegas, written long before the bombs had fallen and they'd re-christened it New Vegas. She read about the gangsters and shysters who'd dreamed the place up, getting lost in the glamour of their world until the light dimmed and she couldn't make out the text on the pages.

Casting the book aside, Six lay in the darkness, uncertain whether she should sleep and conserve her strength or stay alert, poised for whatever danger was to come.

Before she could make up her mind, danger slunk in, wearing the long, lithe form of Vulpes Inculta.

He looked down at her, feigning surprised, although Six was certain that he'd ordered her there.

"Missed me, did you?"

"I suppose you could say that." One could say it – that didn't make it true.

Vulpes crouched down beside her and picked up the book. "For future reference, I'd prefer it if you didn't go rummaging through my things."

Six watched his face, wondering if her discovery of the contraband had riled him. His features were as composed as ever, his expression stern - if he had any tells, she hadn't detected them yet.

"Caesar must watch you carefully, for any signs of disloyalty," she said. "I wonder what he'd think of your choice of light reading."

He straightened, the book still cradled in his hands. "On a personal level, I doubt it would trouble him. He's extremely well-read."

Turning, Vulpes bent down and replaced the book in the box, fastening the lock.

"As a matter of policy, mind you, he would have to have me punished. He'd torch the books and me along with them. After that, I expect he'd have you placed in a sack with a radscorpion and a molerat and pitched off the nearest cliff. He'd be displeased with you for informing on me and forcing him to lose a valuable resource. Besides, it wouldn't do to have a treacherous slave outlive her master. So I sincerely hope you aren't planning any betrayals. "

Vulpes took off his leather carapace and the light shirt beneath it, baring a lean chest and a sinewy back. Leaning over, he attended to the straps of his leather kilt.

Clad in just his black briefs, he looked almost as invulnerable as he did in full armour, his body sleek and merciless. There was a brutal majesty about the man, the quiet arrogance of a predator with his prey in sight. Six would have rather admired him from afar - preferably from across the river, with a rifle in her hands.

He gave a loud sniff. "You haven't bathed. You stink of the trail."

She was about to stammer out an explanation, when she realized that she didn't owe him anything – except perhaps a knife in the gut. Anyway, if he planned on interfering with her again, it would be good to make the experience as unsatisfying as possible, so he wouldn't be tempted to repeat it.

Six crept out of the bedroll and tried to skulk off towards the far end of the tent. "You're right. I smell like a bighorn. I'll go sleep in the corner, far away from your delicate nostrils."

"No. You will fetch water and wash yourself," he said. "I shall watch you do it to ensure that you are thorough."

It took her nearly an hour to track down buckets, find the well and draw the necessary water. When she returned, he'd lit a lamp and was scribbling some notes onto a clipboard. Fastidious as he was, he'd also made a point of setting a box of Abraxo soap flakes, a sponge and a towel by the entranceway, in case she'd figured just a few splashes of cold water would suffice.

Stripping down, she lathered the soap over her breasts and the plane of her stomach, over her pubis and down her thighs. The water streamed down her skin and she shivered, goose bumps rising along her forearms.

The performance embarrassed her, especially since Vulpes chose to set his work aside and supervise her ablutions with a heavy-lidded intensity that she found more than a little unnerving. It wasn't until she noticed that one of his hands had slipped under the bedroll that she realized he was stroking an erection.

"That is satisfactory," he said, at last.

He crooked a finger at her. "Come here."

He slid halfway out of the bedroll, a hand still clenched around the base of his rigid penis, his eyes hooded with desire.

She went to him, each step a painful admission of her weakness, and he put out the light.


	3. Mack the Knife

Six's life settled into a sort of routine, although the word 'routine' was too staid and comforting to describe what happened in the Fort, as the sun made its agonizing march from east to west, as the moon swelled and diminished, casting pale light over the tents and the sharp wooden palisades.

Vulpes came and went as his duties demanded. Six was unsure what days were worse, the ones when he expected her services or the ones where she was left chained in his tent to lick her wounds and brood on all the battles she'd lost and all the ones that she had not even had the strength to fight.

Over time, Six's thoughts tangled together like black thread. More than anything, she was afraid that she was losing her hatred of him.

In the beginning, the boundaries had seemed so clear: Vulpes was her enemy and her tormentor and her only goal was to survive him. Now everything was so much more confused. He was still her implacable foe but also the closest thing she had to a protector and when he returned to camp, she became almost...pleased... at the sight of him.

Six loathed the sudden burst of excitement she'd feel when the tent flap would peel open and he'd be standing there, regarding her with those strange, far-sighted eyes, his gaze solemn, yet, at times, glimmering with quiet amusement at the struggles of lesser-beings, flies drowning in the honey pot. Vulpes was the only one who would acknowledge Six's existence and on those occasions, she felt a contemptible, puppyish impulse to fawn on him.

Sometimes, when Vulpes was in a good mood, he would play chess with her or tell her stories about the Wasteland, things he had seen or read and in those moments, she felt tempted to believe that he cared for her, as much as he was capable of caring for anything that wasn't Caesar or the Legion.

Six lifted her white rook, sweeping it forward to box in his black king.

"Checkmate."

Vulpes scanned the board, looking for one last place for his monarch to take refuge but there was nowhere to flee.

He nodded, conceding that she'd won.

"Indeed. A worthy victory."

Her master was gracious in defeat, at least on the surface, although she could tell from the glint in his eye and the grudging line of his mouth that he didn't enjoy losing to his slave.

Vulpes was a gifted player and at first, it had not been a frequent occurrence. Practice, however, had improved Six's game and now they were almost evenly matched. The Courier liked games of strategy and skill – Lady Luck had always been a cold, hard bitch where she was concerned.

"I'm uncertain whether I like too much cleverness in a woman. It's stimulating, certainly, but altogether, an unnatural gift. And thankfully, an aberration."

"Have you known many women? Many profligates like me? You might be surprised."

Vulpes answered her with a cynical raise of his brow.

"Nothing about your people surprises me. You think you are wonderfully free, when, in truth, you are simply slaves to your greed and cowardice. You live like animals, wishing only to take your pleasures and stave off pain."

"And yet you fuck an animal like me."

"Yes. I see nothing objectionable in turning a lower creature to a higher purpose."

"The higher purpose being what? Making you come?"

"Among other things."

"I see. And I'm the filthy whore who lives only for pleasure?"

Vulpes lunged forward, swiping the remaining chess pieces off the board. He grasped her face, cupping her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. In the lamplight, his changeable eyes were a murky grey and his smooth skin was almost ashen.

"I have mastered my desires. They do not own me. You – you could learn to be better than what you are. If you wished. But until that day, you are but a pretty, disposable creature."

"If you're what it is to be human, I think I'd prefer to be a deathclaw."

He frowned, shoving her away. "This is what comes of speaking to an ignorant whore. A foolish indulgence. You should only open your mouth to service my cock."

Vulpes' resolution didn't last. A few hours later, he was interrogating her on the workings and effects of Med-X. Six had once made the mistake of revealing her knowledge of profligate medicine and this fact seemed be a source of both disgust and fascination for him.

"If a man were to have fits and headaches and were to behave erratically, losing all his former reserve, what would you call that?" he asked.

Vulpes phrased the question in such a circumspect way, that if she didn't live with him, she might have suspected he was the patient in question.

"How long has this friend of yours had the condition?"

If looks could kill, Vulpes would have just crucified her. "No friend. This is hypothetical."

Six suspected that any friends he had were hypothetical too. Vulpes was feared and respected in equal measure, but even by Legion standards, he was not a popular man.

"Alright. How long has this hypothetical person been experiencing symptoms?"

"A year, let us say. Two, perhaps. Before this, he was in admirable condition."

Admirable condition. There were very few people who would earn such praise from Vulpes. None of them ranked lower than Praetorian.

Of course, they wouldn't consider a medical intervention for a Praetorian guard, even Lucius. Even she knew that. No, if they were going to go scrambling for a doctor, there were only two possibilities, Lanius or Caesar.

"That's not a lot to go on, but just from those symptoms, I'd think he had a brain tumour."

Vulpes didn't blink. The only change in his face was a slight contraction of his pupils.

"You are never to speak of this."

"Why not? It's ever so hypothetical..."

"Indeed. So hypothetical that Lucius would beat you to death and feed your corpse to the dogs. I suspect he wouldn't even pay me back my slave price."

She'd been right. Caesar.

Would he die? And if he did, would the Legate succeed him? Or did Vulpes have some other plan in mind?

Her master despised Lanius as one could only hate a rival, one whose tactics couldn't have differed more from the sabotage, subterfuge and precision strikes favoured by the Frumentarii.

"My lips are sealed," Six said, smiling.

"Good. In fact, you will pretend to know nothing of your profligate medicine. I don't care if you see an infant bleeding to death in the square. You will ignore it."

"And if I saw you bleeding to death in the square?" she asked sweetly.

Vulpes struck her, the gold ring on his finger coming down against the top of her head.

The pain forked through her skull, her ears ringing with the blow. Blood dribbled down from her hairline.

Six raised her arms over her face to block the next strike but he simply shook his head, seeming to despair of her.

"When it is my time to die, I won't flee the inevitable. Only degenerates live in fear of dying. You cannot conceive of anything beyond your own petty existences."

Six wondered if he'd feel that way when he was kneeling before her in the desert sand, staring down the barrel of her gun. When it came time to put him down, she wouldn't be stupid, as Benny was. She'd empty her whole clip into Vulpes' braincase and make sure he was good and dead before she walked off, whistling a merry tune.

She kept those delicious thoughts to herself.

After a trip to New Vegas, Vulpes, so-called master of his desires, returned to her with a red negligee balled in his fist.

"I brought you a souvenir of the New Vegas Strip. A particularly depraved example of profligate aesthetics."

He tossed it at her.

After weeks of Legion slave garb, the crumpled satin felt like heaven in her hands. She hugged it to her chest, not considering until too late that this might not be the proper response.

Vulpes nodded, his lips curving into the ghost of a smile. "I anticipated such a thing might...please you. You may wear it, if you wish, but strictly within the confines of these quarters."

He'd been teaching her Latin, too, and while he mocked and disparaged her for every mistake, he would sometimes express surprise at her progress.

"There are occasions when you are not wholly a disappointment to me. One day, you might make a decent woman."

"Is that what you want? A decent woman?"

He'd chuckled at that. "I haven't quite decided."

Those were the best times, when Vulpes was in Caesar's good graces or his mission had gone according to plan or he'd simply decided that he would be a man that day instead of a monster. He'd treat her almost kindly then and when he took her in the night, he might be amused by the novelty of attending to her pleasure, curling a deft finger inside her to rub her clit, licking her nipples and her slit with a sandpapery tongue. He seemed to enjoy watching her fight back her orgasm and when his ministrations defeated her, he'd wrap his arms around her with something that resembled tenderness.

It occurred to Six that his loneliness was almost as great as hers. As far as she could tell, he had no companions among the men of the Legion, only subordinates to command and superiors to obey. She imagined that most despised his cunning and his furtiveness, the very qualities that made him valuable to their cause. He was the serpent in their garden and while he served his purpose, they all seemed fearful of his sting.

But she had to fight such thoughts. They eroded her loathing and lulled her into a sense of complacency where she might be able to excuse him anything, even Nipton. There were mornings when she woke to find that their bodies had twined together even as they slept. The realization sickened her, but it seemed to vex Vulpes even more.

"What's the matter with you, woman? You cling to me like a leech. Do you intend to suck my blood, too?"

"I can if you'd like," Six said, disentangling herself.

She didn't point out that he was almost always the principal offender and that just hours ago, he'd been drowsily spooning her, rubbing his stiffening cock against the backs of her thighs.

"If you're so eager to suck something, you're welcome to attend to other parts of my person. Otherwise, I suggest you rise and draw me a bath. And be certain the water's hot this time."

Six seized every opportunity she could to escape his tent and explore the camp beyond. She'd long since given up on finding a way to fight her way out or remove her collar, but there was still the consolation of seeing the other slaves. Better yet, there was the chance she'd find some bitter drink.

She would never have thought that the vile-tasting liquid could displace her devotion to Sunset Sasparilla, but that was before she'd come to the Fort and long before she'd discovered that there was only one thing Vulpes wanted more than the fall of the NCR – a son to inherit his name.

There'd been rumours circling that enough bitter drink would render a woman barren and as soon as Six caught wind of them, the stuff had taken her interest. When she'd figured out the chemical components, she'd guessed the truth of the matter – at the right levels, in steady doses, she could toy with her hormone levels and convince her body that she was already pregnant.

Bitter drink became her obsession. When Vulpes wasn't around, she spent hours plotting how to brew the stuff, how to store it and how to keep it hidden.

Inevitably, one day Vulpes went sniffing around and found the vials she'd buried under the edge of the tent.

Six had been in almost a pleasant mood with him that day and as she washed him, she couldn't help but admire the sleek lines of his body, the long muscles of his thighs beaded with water. When she'd finished overseeing his personal care, he'd stooped down and surprised her, drawing the vials from his discarded cloak.

"Pray tell, what are these?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. He knew exactly what they were. All the men did. Nevertheless, he seemed to want to hear her acknowledge it.

"Bitter drink."

The words tasted bitterer than the drink ever did.

"And why would you want such a thing?"

She would have to lie, although she doubted he would believe her. If she informed him that she wanted to be barren so that he could never put a son inside her – well, crucifixion would be merciful compared to what he'd do to her.

"I was curious. I wanted to know what it was like."

Vulpes grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and flung her face-down on the ground. "Did I give you permission to do such a thing?"

"No."

His weight pressed down upon her back, pushing the air from her lungs. "Then why, may I inquire, did you think it was a good idea?"

"I don't know. I just...did."

"A stupid answer, if ever I'd heard one. Do you know what I think?"

"No."

"I think that you've been listening to slave gossip. Apparently, some of the fools think that bitter drink will render them sterile."

Not sterile. But close enough. "What? No, I'd never heard that. I would never -"

"You realize that I have been exceedingly patient with you, do you not? I understand that you are but a woman and that you are heir to all the frailties and vices of your kind. Nevertheless, if I believed for a moment that you intended to murder my sons within you, I would do everything within my power to avenge them. Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

"It is fortunate that I do not believe you could be so callous and ungrateful, after all the many kindnesses I have shown you. In light of this, I will only punish your ignorance and not your malice."

Six saw movement at the corner of her eye – he was reaching for something hidden in his clothes. It was only when she felt the point of the blade carving into her back that she realized it was his utility knife.

"Don't squirm or this could become messy," Vulpes said. "Neither of us would enjoy that."

As always, the pain was worst at the beginning, before the adrenalin kicked in, before the beat of her heart drowned out the velvety softness of his voice. When he was done, he took a cloth and wiped away the blood.

"In a few days, it will begin to heal and you'll be able to see how I've marked you. Don't fret. The effect is rather charming, I think."

Later, he brought her a hand mirror and showed her his handiwork: "VI", his initials cut into her back.

She laughed at the irony. Six in Roman numerals. Funny how that number kept turning up. If she ever got to New Vegas, she'd take it to the roulette tables.

"You're right. It suits me. To a tee."

Her reaction unsettled him momentarily, as if it had occurred to him that instead of breaking her mind, he might have caused her to lose it altogether.

Six savoured that too. It was an uncommon victory to be able to scare him, to remind the bastard that he still hadn't quite managed to slither into her head.

She was more careful with the bitter drink after that. When she managed to get her hands on some, she guzzled it down on the spot. The appearance of compliance seemed to satisfy Vulpes and he showed all signs of believing that she had surrendered the last of her defences.


	4. Prisoner of Love

One night, after he'd mounted her and spent himself in the usual manner, Vulpes made an unusual request.

"Tell me what you think when you look at me."

His features were hazy in the velvety darkness and from his tone, it was difficult to discern whether he was seeking reassurance or testing her, out to provoke a fight. He wouldn't like an honest answer, but Six knew that if she outright lied, he'd be certain to detect it.

"What do you want me to think?"

"Do you ever – desire this?"

"That never seemed to worry you before."

His pale eyes shone in the darkness. "I have observed, on occasion, that you have had some pleasure from our intimacy."

"Sometimes. Yes."

Involuntary pleasure. Surrendering to it was a special kind of torment.

"I would be willing to oblige you more often. It's weakness in me, but I have sometimes derived a peculiar satisfaction from your...gratification."

Six had observed that already, although she wasn't sure if it was a point in his favour or another manipulation, a way to twist her around his finger. She supposed that she should have been grateful for this consideration, but in the end, it seemed entirely motivated by his own ego, his desire not simply to compel her body but to invade her mind.

"If that's what you want."

"Perhaps I'm curious to know what you want."

Six rolled onto her back and stared up at the tent ceiling. It'd been a long time since she'd seen the stars.

"Are you sure about that?"

"You want your freedom, then?" His voice took on a sardonic edge. "You miss Nipton and the company of your precious degenerates? I don't suppose you've ever thought that I might have done you a favour, rescuing you from that sty, bringing you to civilization?"

She didn't answer. In the past, she'd tried to reason with him, imagining that she might touch some place in him where logic prevailed and he might concede defeat as he did when her chess pieces encircled his king. She knew better now. He might enjoy toying with profligate ideas, skirting the boundaries of propriety, but in the end, he was committed to the Legion and his excursions to the other side of the river were stolen holidays, not his idea of a life.

"If I let you go, you would only harm yourself," he said, tempering the condescension in his tone. "You may not see it, but even when I punish you, I've wanted to make you better."

Six felt her mouth twitch, fighting to suppress a smirk. Is that why he'd mutilated her back? Why he'd broken two of her ribs when she'd been foolhardy enough to name him a hypocrite? Why he'd raped her innumerable times, pushing her face down into the bedroll and ignoring how she bristled at his touch? She hoarded away these thoughts away, little rebellions to remind her that whatever else he possessed, he still didn't control her mind.

"I see."

"I would allow you to bear me my sons. My legacy. Does that honour mean nothing to you?"

"And if I bore you daughters instead? You'd leave them on a hill for the nightstalkers."

She'd expected Vulpes to strike her for that notable piece of insolence, but instead, his hand stroked her cheek, as if he pitied her and thought to mitigate the harshness of his speech.

"I don't deny it. I'd do the same for one who was born diseased, deformed, simple. Were you not the one begging me to shoot the crucified? I think we're both aware that sometimes death is a mercy."

"Yes," Six said darkly. "Sometimes it is."

Vulpes gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin. "One that you are not permitted, woman. You belong to me. You will not damage my property."

"You're right. Anyway, I don't want to die. I want something else."

She wanted to live long enough to see the Legion's empire collapse into dust. She wanted to see his corpse laid out on a pyre and know that he'd never again offer his sneering sermons and the Legion's brutal 'lessons' to another town like Nipton.

Vulpes gripped her face between his hands and turned her head, forcing her to look at him. "Something else. What else could you desire?"

If she told him what he wanted to hear, if she gave him the answer he was clearly pushing toward, then he'd chuckle and tell her she was fond and foolish, a weak creature. After that, he might let her sleep and she'd have a few hours of blessed reprieve.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered. There was urgency in his voice and in the way his gaze raked over her face, examining each feature for truth or its semblance.

Six made herself look him in the eyes, staring into the lightless depths of his pupils. Under the cover of darkness, it was easier to pretend that they were different people and imagine a world where he might be capable of kindness and she might be able to love him.

As loathe as she was to admit it, she'd seen potential buried within him, raw intelligence and strength and nobility of form that the Legion had twisted and squandered. If those traits hadn't been turned to the service of something terrible, if they hadn't been poisoned by a hundred different kinds of evil, he would have been a formidable man, a man worthy of anything.

"You. I want you."

_Dead_, she appended in the back of her mind. Or perhaps on the end of a chain, so she could watch him beg for a bullet she'd never allow him, because he belonged to her.

"Woman, you ask more than you know." He sounded almost indignant, but Six could tell she had pleased him.

If he believed the lie, she knew better than to think it was her cunning that'd done it. No, if Vulpes could be deceived, it was a trick that he'd played on himself, out of loneliness, out of vanity, out of a desire to have someone to adore him, even if it was only his slave.

Six ventured a little further, playing on his favourite topic – the little matter of her conversion from worthless profligate to deserving mother of his sons.

"I want to understand you. Teach me. Make me see. This time, I'll listen. I'll be the woman you wanted, the one you hoped for when you took me in Nipton."

She listened to the soft rasp of his breathing, aware that he was pondering this new development, weighing out his options.

"That sounds far too good to be true. Why this sudden change of heart?"

"Not a change. I've always seen that you were better than other men. Purer. If I've resisted, it's because I was a slave to my pride."

"Pride can be an admirable trait. Even a noble one."

He stroked a hand through her hair.

"I have known for some time that there is less of the animal in you than the others. I glimpsed it in Nipton when you resisted us and proved the exception to my little social experiment. If you renounced the profligates and their ways, all might change between us. We might enjoy something more profound than these rough couplings."

"I will. I do."

She'd have told him that the moon was made of cheese if it was going to improve her chances of making it out alive.

Vulpes kissed her then, for the first time, a hard, devouring kiss that felt like a violation. "From this time forward, you will be mine in all ways."

Six didn't know what to say. Perhaps he'd think he'd overawed her with his generosity. "Thank you."

He kissed her again, softer now, experimentally, with a tentative sweetness she would have expected from a boy, parting her lips with his tongue.

"Tell me, would it please you to travel? To see the wastes at my side?"

Six gave him an incredulous look. It was the best chance at escape she'd ever had and he was dropping it right in her lap. It had to be some kind of test.

"You'd take me with you? We could – do that?"

Vulpes offered her an enigmatic smile. "It might be arranged. Sometimes, it is necessary for me to travel under an assumed identity. On some occasions, it might be useful to have a woman on my arm, one to play the role of wife, lover, sister, whore. The degenerates are often much more trusting when they see a female. If you were with child, it would be so much the better."

His hand caressed her stomach, as if he already imagined he'd accomplished the task.

Sweet mercy, Six hoped not. The man was dead-set on knocking her up and pumping out a unit of little veterans and centurions. Hopefully, she'd manage to escape before he put her in the family way.

"I know the profligates well. I could blend in."

Or better yet, run to the first NCR patrol she saw and tell them where they could find a cabal of Legion spies. They'd trust her. She was a woman. No woman in her right mind would work for the Legion.

"Yes. And it would give us more time to indulge this sweet weakness. I will enjoy having you in a bed again. Perhaps in a hotel suite in New Vegas, although it will be some time before we get that far."

They passed another four days in the Fort, days that marked a peculiar change in their relation. The morning after her feigned surrender, Vulpes unlocked the metal clasp of her slave collar. He stroked her bare neck, stooping to press his lips against the hollow at the base of her throat.

"Much better, I think."

For once, Six agreed with him. It felt good to breathe freely again. Strange, but good.

"In time, perhaps I shall find you another form of adornment. Would you like that?"

She hesitated, unsure if he was alluding to contraband jewellery. Between his books and the lingerie he'd given her, they'd already amassed quite a collection of items that could earn them the cross or the pyre.

"That sounds dangerous. I thought you wanted me to be good."

"Some rules are necessary. Some may be bent by those clever enough to understand their intent. A sensible man can discern the difference."

Six continued to serve Vulpes in the usual way, but now, when she completed each duty, he thanked her, favouring her with a nod or a vague smile.

In the mornings, she'd once knelt at the side of his tub, attending to his personal care. In recent days, however, he'd begun to invite her into the warmth of his bath, setting her between his thighs, his arms draping around her to caress her nakedness.

Vulpes had started to take his meals in her company too, giving her a portion of his food in place of the stale bread and salty broth she'd been accustomed to as her slave's rations. In the darkness of the tent, he whispered endearments to her in Latin and she understood every word.

If there'd been no prospect of escape, she might've forgotten the outside world and taught herself to love him. Even with the hope of the Mojave, sometimes it was easy to forget who she was and to delude herself that he loved her.

When he kissed her, Six closed her eyes and thought of Nipton, trying to summon up the smells of burning rubber and scorched flesh, to hear the sad murmur of the damned on their crosses as Vulpes held out his gun and shot the one she'd chosen.

"This is decadence," he informed her. "You make a mockery of me."

Six froze, fearful that he'd detected the insincerity of her conversion. "What do you mean? I –"

Vulpes sighed. "A man should not be excessively uxorious. It is a failing in me, one that I would not have suspected."

Uxorious. It was a funny choice of adjectives to explain one's feelings for a slave.

The slip was revealing. It almost made Six pity him. If she'd become prone to mistaking her captor for a lover, Vulpes had come to imagine his prisoner as his wife.

"I've had slaves before," he said. "All dutiful. All comely enough. Yet never have I been brought to such...indulgences. If I were less a rational man, I might think you had bewitched me."

He darted a glance at her, eyes narrowed, evaluating her response.

Six chose to smile and play it off as a joke, although she sensed that it wasn't, not entirely. How sad to think that he could only see affection as a trick, the product of some strange philtre or enchantment.

"Thankfully, you're a man of reason. You aren't fooled by the superstitions of mere tribals."

Vulpes gave her a rueful smile. "Careful now. I was born among tribals."

Six could hardly contain her surprise. She'd always assumed that he was Legion born and bred, that devotion to Caesar's ideology was stamped into the very marrow of his bones. Vulpes had epitomized the Legion to her from the day she'd met him – everything she feared about it, everything she despised and yes, even the parts of it that held a perverse fascination for her, that appealed to the part of her that admired spectacle, discipline and self-sacrifice.

To think that, in another world, Vulpes might have just been some clever tribal eking out a living in the wastes...

No, she couldn't think that. It diminished her precious supply of hate and she needed it now more than ever.

He reached down, fingers tracing her breast through the coarse fabric of her shift. "_Mulier est hominis confusio_."

_Woman is the ruin of man. _A favourite adage amongst the Legion.

She replied with a proverb of her own. "_Amor tussisque non celatur." _

_Love and a cough cannot be concealed. _

He chuckled at that, his free hand tangling in her hair.

"You flatter yourself. Nonetheless, there might be truth in it. For some."


	5. The Devil in Disguise

They left the Fort on a sunny morning that seemed to glimmer with promise, Vulpes arrayed in his leather armour and Six clothed in her slave garb.

When they arrived at the docks, Vulpes told the legionary manning the raft that he was transporting her to Cottonwood Cove and the man seemed to accept this. There were few who could question the commander of the Frumentarii.

After the raft had disappeared from sight, they strayed away from the slaving station, climbing into the rugged, orange hills beyond. They changed their clothes under the concealment of a ridge where someone had left a tent and the crude remains of a sniper's nest.

Vulpes assumed the costume of a gambler and a beaten leather fedora. Six put on a simple cotton dress with the flared skirt, a fashion that he claimed was popular on the Strip.

"We're on our honeymoon," he told her. "If anyone should inquire, my name is Victor Fox. Have you been to Novac before?"

"No."

She'd been planning to head there though, before her capture. There was supposed to be a guy in town who'd seen the man who'd shot her. It took her a few panicked seconds to recall his name. Manny. Manny Vargas.

"Good. In that case, you'll be Rita Fox. When we were in New Vegas, we stayed in a room at Vault 21. You'll be angry with me for squandering most of our caps in the Tops Casino and you'll be eager to return home to Cesna before those nasty Legion men try to attack Hoover Dam. Understand?"

Six nodded.

"Repeat it. Tell me about our delightful honeymoon."

"You blew all our caps playing blackjack and we had to hole up at the Vault 21 instead of somewhere romantic," she said. "We barely had any privacy at all. I liked the Tops and all the flashy lights, but it wasn't worth getting so close to Caesar's Legion, especially since I heard all about what they did at Nipton. I just want to stay on budget so that we can get back to Cesna and you can start that new job with my daddy's caravan."

"Very...creative. I'd advise you not to be too clever though. It's important that we stay consistent. Once you volunteer information, it will prompt questions. If you can't answer those questions, you're going to look foolish. Also, if you're going to say 'Caesar', make the 'C' soft and flaccid. Rita doesn't speak Latin."

Six flushed. Before Nipton, she could have passed herself off as some NCR traveller without a second thought. Apparently, her stay with the Legion had done more than leave her with a few more scars and an unquenchable craving for bitter drink.

"Understood. I'll be convincing. I promise."

The last thing she needed was for him to change his mind and ship her back across the river.

Vulpes pressed a kiss to her forehead, something he'd been doing with alarming frequency of late. It was even stranger for him to do it in the open, where anyone might see. Caesar (with a soft 'C') would have been aghast.

"I know you will. There's much we have to accomplish. Besides, it's the only way we'll get to savour our honeymoon."

It was a day's walk to Novac and by the time they arrived in front of the giant T-rex statue, they were convincingly dusty and dishevelled, looking for all the world like a pair of squabbling newly-weds.

Less promising was the presence of a sniper watching them from inside the dinosaur's maw.

"Hit me," Vulpes whispered.

Six did so with undisguised pleasure, slapping him hard across the mouth.

He recoiled, lifting his hands up in surrender. "Don't be mad now, honey. Look, we're gonna get a motel room, alright, and then maybe I'll buy you a nice cold Sasparilla."

Shit, he was good. He sounded whiney and henpecked, even put on a bit of an accent, giving a perfect caricature of what the Legion thought of NCR married men.

"You think you can buy me off with a Sasparilla? Goddamn it, Vic."

"Eh, let's just mosey on in and see what the rate per night is, huh? I'm not made of caps, y'know."

"I wish you were," she sniped. "Maybe we could have stayed at the Ultra-Luxe."

"Next time, I promise. I'll take you back next year when the leather-skirts aren't breathing down our necks."

"Yeah? I'm not sure I believe that anymore. Mother always said you were a no-good son of a bitch. I should've listened to her before I let you take me to Vegas."

Hot damn, Six was starting to enjoy this.

"Yeah, well, you ain't always sunshine and rainbows yourself, honey."

Vulpes held open the door to the motel lobby and she sashayed on through, still pretending to be in a goddawful snit.

She plunked down on the lobby sofa and watched as her darling hubby tried to negotiate with the hotel manager, a birdlike, bespectacled old woman. He managed to get the cost of a room down to 30 caps a night.

Vulpes swung the motel key around his finger, giving Six a playful nudge. The way he was grinning at her, she would have had to look twice to recognize him if she'd passed him on the street. It was fucking uncanny. If she stopped to think about it for too long, it might scare her.

"C'mon, sweetie. Next stop, paradise."

He took her by the arm and escorted her to their room up on the second floor. Once he'd closed the door behind them and bolted the deadlock, Vulpes dropped the jokey, put-upon demeanour and resumed his usual mien of cold arrogance.

"Hm. A competent performance. You play in broad strokes, but with this audience, that may not be a bad thing."

"If I hit hard, it's because I didn't want to disappoint you," she said, sweet as pie.

"An interesting rationale. In any case, I know a way you can make it up to me."

He shoved her against the wall, kissing her neck. His hand snaked under the hem of her dress to rub her through her panties, one of the aspects of her NCR costume that he seemed to find the most fascinating. She'd never worn anything beneath her slave's shift.

He chuckled. "You're wet for me already. Do you savour deceit?"

Fear gripped her by the throat and she had work to keep the terror from glimmering in her eyes. Was he hinting that she had deceived him? Did he suspect her? Was this all just a manipulation, another stratagem to break her?

"Maybe," she said.

"You do. You liked the taste of it. I can tell."

He pulled the panties aside and fingered her, gently at first, then more vigorously in his growing arousal. His thumb rubbed against her clit, slow, teasing circles that made her writhe with pleasure.

"If you're going to scream any names when you come, remember that it's 'Victor'. Nothing else."

"Yes, honey."

He fucked her against the wall and it was almost fun to pretend that she was Rita and he was Victor and that there was nothing more horrible between them than a couple of gambling losses and a subpar honeymoon.

For the inevitable second round, he steered her back to the bed and when he dropped down beside her, she did what Rita would have done - she straddled him, pinning him down to the mattress and rode him hard, grinding against him and clawing his chest with her nails. At the Fort, it would've been unthinkable, but somehow, in this dirty motel room, the balance of power had become just a tad more even.

Of course, afterward, good ol' Vulpes still forced her to lie in the wet spot. Some things never changed.

"You take liberties," he muttered, rubbing his chest.

His smooth skin was striped with the marks of her fingernails.

"Not me. Rita."

He sniffed. "I see. Following that logic, Victor liked it. Vulpes did not. Be sure to remember the difference."

Oh, she would. Victor was imaginary, an act he put on to fool old ladies into giving him a discount on his rooms. Vulpes was real and he was dangerous, even if she'd managed to dig down into his vulnerabilities a little bit. If he realized that she was playing him, his vengeance would be all the worse for that.

For all his talk about trusting her, Vulpes handcuffed her to the bed frame the next evening, claiming he had work to do.

"You're going to just leave me here?"

"For a brief interval. You can watch the television. Rot your brain like a real woman of the NCR."

He flicked on the television set and some Pre-War cartoon flashed onto the screen.

"Enjoy."

"Thanks. What a considerate husband you are."

"I do my best."

The next morning, he offered to take her for a walk around the courtyard to stretch her legs.

"A few things may have altered in Novac. All I ask is that you keep your head."

That remark had certain reek of Nipton about it, but all she could do was hope for the best. Efficient as he was, she doubted that he'd found time to raze the town and crucify all the occupants while she'd been watching a cartoon coyote get squashed by falling anvils and blown to smithereens by defective dynamite. Still, it was a relief when she stepped out of the motel room and noted that Dinky the Dino was still intact.

They'd strolled about halfway into the courtyard when a man in an NCR Ranger uniform limped over to them, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly fashion.

She'd heard that rangers were well-trained – he might be armed and able to take Vulpes down. Nevertheless, she hesitated. He was old and she didn't like the look of that bum leg.

"Good morning, folks. You must be new in town."

"Yeah, me and Rita just got in," Vulpes said, assuming Victor's mannerisms. "On our way back from the Strip."

"Well, you kids might want to be careful. We had a murder here just last night."


	6. Strangers in the Night

Six glanced at 'Victor'. His face betrayed only shock and confusion, although she knew this was exactly what Vulpes had been alluding to when he warned her to keep her head.

"Somebody got killed? You don't say."

"A soldier, too," the ranger said. "Good man, that Manny Vargas. He worked sentry duty up in old Dinky there. I always figured he was a real tough customer. NCR First Recon and before that, had a history with the Khans. Goes to show that nobody's safe these days."

Manny Vargas. Crap. Vulpes just had to go and murder her best lead to the identity of the man who'd shot her. She wondered how many men in New Vegas went strutting around in chequered suits, carrying 9mm pistols. Probably too many to count. If she didn't get a name to go with the tacky suit, she'd be shit out of luck.

She found it even more worrisome that Vulpes had chosen to go after a sniper. If he or one of his operatives were taking down defenders, a Legion raid on Novac wouldn't be far behind.

Vulpes put on downcast expression, as if he was ashamed to have brought his little wifey to such a crime-ridden place. She had the feeling he was enjoying this and he expected that she'd get a kick out of it too.

"Aw, heck. I'm sorry, honey. I figured this looked like a real nice town."

The ranger seemed embarrassed. Six felt sorry for him. How he was to know that this henpecked hubby, this born loser in a gambler suit, was actually the Legion's most accomplished infiltrator? Andy might've been a fine ranger back in his prime, but he wasn't in any condition to take on Vulpes. If she tried to let him in on the big secret, they'd both probably end up as dead as Manny.

"It usually is a very nice town," he said. "But we've had a few incidents in the last couple of months. You and the little lady might want to be extra careful to lock your doors."

'Victor' nodded. "Thank you kindly, sir. Say, are you a real live NCR ranger?"

"I was, back before a grenade got my leg. I'm retired now. Everybody 'round here calls me Ranger Andy, for old time's sake."

'Victor's' sleepy eyes widened and he turned to 'Rita', his face breaking into a boyish grin. "Well, look at that, sweetie! A ranger! You ever seen one of those before?"

The news might have pleased Rita, but Six didn't have the same enthusiasm for the charade that she'd had the night before. Vulpes had made her an accomplice to murder and now he was mocking some nice, worn-out old ranger, shining him on about how important he was, while he laughed down his sleeve about the hapless bumblers of the NCR.

"No, Vic. I haven't."

"Oh, we got lots of soldiers 'round Cesna," Vulpes told Andy. "But they ain't got nothing on the stories they tell about the rangers. It's a real honour to meet you, sir."

He shook the retired ranger's hand and they exchanged a few more pleasantries before the Foxes moved on to pick up some breakfast at the gift shop.

Six sat on the concrete stoop and ate her Fancy Lad cake in stony silence, looking up between mouthfuls to glare at Vulpes.

"What's wrong, sugarplum?" Vulpes asked in Victor's syrupy tones. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"I don't like surprises."

"But surprises are the spice of life."

"My life is spicy enough."

She glanced over to the steps that led up to the gift shop, observing that a sniper had come down from the dinosaur.

The sniper hunkered down on the steps, smoking a cigarette and watching them from behind his tinted aviators. The more he watched them, the gloomier he looked, although it was unclear if he was depressed by their marital strife or the stupid red beret someone had slapped on his head.

Of course, when she'd met Vulpes, he'd been strutting around wearing a dead mutt, so it wasn't as if this guy set the Wasteland standard for atrocious fashion sense.

The sniper caught her staring at him and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, puffing out a mouthful of smoke. His face was like something chiselled out of rock, hard-featured and weather-beaten, and she had the sense that he was silently judging her, sizing her up, although she couldn't say why.

Maybe he suspected something. He had a gun and it was clear that he could take care of himself – judging from the shaved head and the beret, he'd probably pulled a couple tours of duty with the NCR forces. Six figured this might be a good time to point and cry "Legion". It might be the only chance she'd get.

Vulpes' voice cut into her deliberations. "Maybe we oughta go back to the room, Rita."

Six tilted her head at him, feigning an innocent smile. "You go ahead. I'm enjoying the fresh air."

His expression darkened, a hint of Vulpes showing through Victor's smarmy facade. "You heard what the nice ranger said, honey. It's dangerous out here. 'Specially for a woman alone."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm sure the nice ranger and his sniper friend will protect me."

Six had to resist the urge to shoot the sniper a sassy little wink. He didn't look like the type to be amused by that. He didn't look like the type to be amused by anything, really.

Vulpes grasped her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, knocking the half-eaten Fancy Lad out of her hand.

"Dammit, Vic, what did you do that for?"

Her distress was genuine. That cake had been good.

"It's time to go, Rita."

He acted out a weary patience, as if he were trying to reason with a spoiled child. But there was an edge to his voice, a domineering quality that just didn't sit right on a down-on-his-luck gambler scurrying back to California with his tail between his legs. It reminded her of the grim fury on his face when she'd called checkmate and reached over the chessboard to topple his king.

"No. It's not time to go. Not for me."

His hand clamped down harder on hers, twisting her fingers as if to emphasize how easy it would be to crush her knucklebones or snap her wrist with a quick jerk of his arm.

"Yes. It is. Don't make me regret bringing you here."

"You should regret it. The worst mistake you ever made."

Instead of breaking her fingers, Vulpes gave her the back of his hand, Victor be damned.

Six shoved him away, jabbing her heel into his shin and he gave a loud huff, biting back his pain.

Vulpes seized a hank of her hair, pulling her back into his grip.

She answered with a hard elbow to his face, but he held on, even as blood started to trickle from his nose.

"Pro- "

He stopped himself just in time, sputtering to cover the slip. For a second, she'd been positive that Vulpes was going to spit out his very favourite word: _profligate_. Oh, what fun that would have been.

Instead, he translated the sentiment into the speech of the NCR: "Goddamn bitch."

"Fuck you. You want to kill me, you do it here and now. In front of everybody."

The muscles in his narrow face tensed, his jaw tightening, the cords in his neck pulsing as he drew in a furious breath. It was hard to know how much of the desperation behind his eyes was Victor and how much of it was the fox caught in a trap, ready to gnaw a leg off if necessary to manage his escape.

"Don't tempt me."

"Hey. Hands off her."

The sniper had stood up and was glowering at them, rifle in hand.

Six pried Vulpes' hand out of her hair, giving him a scornful smile as she stepped back, out of range of his fists.

Maybe her luck was starting to turn. She had a knight in shining armour. One with really bad taste in hats.

Vulpes seemed intent on brazening out the situation. "How 'bout you mind your own business, pal?"

The sniper gestured at them with the muzzle of his rifle. "The two of you made it my business. Now back the fuck off."

"If you insist. Take the whore."

Vulpes glared down at Six, fuming, staunching his bloody nose with the back of his hand and trying to recover what was left of his dignity. He stalked off, passing the motel lobby, his long strides eating up the distance between the broken asphalt and the cracked earth of the Mojave.

Six watched his silhouette receding, panic knifing at her insides. She should say something. She should. Why...why was she hesitating? Why did she even think twice?

"He's Legion," she blurted out. "There's still time. Shoot him."

"What? The fuck?" The man stared at her over the gold rims of his sunglasses. "If you knew me, you wouldn't say that. Might just make you a widow."

She gave a bitter laugh, holding up her hands. "You see a ring on my finger? Frumentarii don't marry their slaves."

He frowned, mulling this over. "Maybe you took it off. Would make for one sick joke."

"He killed the other sniper."

"You got evidence? Could have been you. Could have been anyone. Not my job to avenge him."

She took in a deep breath and vented a long string of curses at him in her best Latin. "You think I learned to talk this pretty in the NCR?"

Behind his aviators, the sniper's eyes showed a dawning recognition. The cigarette dropped from his mouth and he went barrelling out to the front of the motel, feverishly scanning the desert.

Six stared at the abandoned cigarette, still burning in the sand. She paced in the courtyard, waiting for the shot, longing for it and dreading it at the same time, but nothing came.

The sniper came shambling back, his rifle holstered. He took out a lighter and grimly started in on another cigarette, shielding the flame with the palm of his hand.

"Got away."

As if she hadn't guessed as much. Vulpes was sly and fast and when you thought you had him, he'd melt into the horizon like a mirage. That's how he'd earned his nickname, the Desert Fox.

There was nothing to do, Six thought, but arm herself, get tougher and track him down before he decided to come back for her and claim a little vengeance of his own. It would be all-out war between them now and she knew Vulpes well enough to realize that he wouldn't give up 'til he was dead and roasting on a funeral pyre. He and the Legion, they were next on her shit list, right after the man in the chequered suit.

"Thanks for trying," Six said, trying to conceal her disappointment.

It wasn't the sniper's fault - not really. Sure he could have been faster on the uptake, but then she hadn't been all that decisive herself.

Anyway, it wasn't as if she came off like the most trustworthy person right now. Probably best to count herself grateful that he hadn't decided to call her out on her cozy relationship with a man of the Legion.

She'd turned tail and was about to hustle back to her room when she sensed the sniper lumbering up behind her.

"Wait a goddamn minute."

Six reeled around and found him scowling at her in a distinctly unpromising manner.

"What?"

"Explain. Now."

His voice was gravelly with a slight rasp, as if his vocal cords had rusted over from disuse. The man definitely wasn't the talkative type, but that was almost a relief after months of Vulpes and his gloating.

"Maybe you could be more specific?" she said. "I'd be happy to give you my life story, but it'll take longer than your average cigarette break."

"You can start with telling me who you are. What you are."

What she was. He made it sound like she might be a ghoul or a Super Mutant gussied up in a really good costume.

"The name's Six. Well...sort of. It's complicated. Anyway, Six is a lot closer to my name than Rita."

He didn't look too impressed. "Hmh. Why don't you skip to the part where you're helping a Legion spy sneak into Novac?"

"Look, I was a slave. I didn't have a hell of a lot of options. I didn't know Vulpes was planning to kill anyone. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am. After you do something like that, I'm not sure you get to just walk away."

Great. She'd come all this way, survived Nipton and everything Vulpes had thrown at her and now she was going get executed by the NCR for treason. Just another day in the life and many deaths of Unlucky Number Six. Maybe this time they'd put three bullets in her head and make sure she'd stopped breathing before they buried her.

"Alright. If that's the way it's got to be, you can turn me in. I'd rather die here than at the Fort."

He pondered this, taking a long drag on his cigarette, as if he liked to see her sweat.

"No," he concluded at last. "Not going to shoot you. But you're going to help me. If you do the job right, maybe it'll start to... make things square."

The sniper's name was Boone, simple and to the point, like everything else about him. His pregnant wife, Carla, had been taken by Legion slavers, sold and betrayed by someone in Nipton.

"I want to know who did it. And I'll want evidence, because right now, your word isn't worth shit to me."

Fair enough. Six could hardly blame him for being suspicious after the role she'd played in Vulpes' ruse.

"Look, maybe your wife is still alive. I knew some women at the Fort. A lot of them were, um... in the family way. She might be there under another name. If you told me what she looks like -"

Boone's jaw clenched, his lips narrowing into a hard line. "She's dead. I know that already."

"Okay. Well, look, I get that you don't trust me, but you don't have to blackmail me to help you. I hate the Legion as much as you do."

"That's one point in your favour."

He stomped out his cigarette, took off his red beret and handed it to her.

"You find the person who sold Carla, you take him out front of the dinosaur and put this on. I'll know what to do."

Six held the hat loosely, between thumb and forefinger, the way one might have handled a dead molerat. She'd put it on, sure, but she was taking it off as soon as the traitor was dead. Sartorially, the thing was as bad as her flea-bitten old slave dress.

"It's probably best we don't talk until after the job is done," he added. "Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."

With that charming remark, he turned his back on her, trudging up the stairs and into the dinosaur's belly, the heavy metal door banging shut behind him.

Six decided she'd play Rita as lost and lovelorn now that Victor had high-tailed it back to California. That ought to earn her some sympathy. And if she happened to inquire about another case of spousal abandonment while she told her sad tale, she doubted anyone would hold it against her.

At worst, they'd probably think she had her eye on Boone. Which was ridiculous, of course, but people would talk.

Or, well, maybe it wasn't completely unreasonable. Stupid hat aside, the man wasn't bad-looking – maybe even good-looking, if you favoured the strong, silent type. Of course, with that sunny disposition of his, she could see why the ladies weren't exactly lining up around the block.

Anyway, Six decided she'd let them gossip all they liked. No skin off her hide. Nowadays, there was room for only two men in her life and she wanted both of them dead.


	7. Suspicious Minds

Jeannie May's brain matter decorated the asphalt like a particularly lurid Rorschach blot.

Six didn't even feel too bad about it, so long as she didn't have to look at the corpse.

The prune-faced proprietor of the Dino Dee-lite had sold out Carla Boone and her unborn child to the Legion, for caps, yes, but mostly out of spite, because the sniper's wife had been too honest to pretend a ramshackle motel in Novac was some little slice of paradise. It was hard to imagine anything pettier or more poisonous, the most banal kind of evil. When Vulpes did something despicable, at least he showed some style.

Something crunched under Six's boots. She looked down, seeing glass sparkle on the broken road and realized, too late, that she'd stepped on the old biddy's spectacles.

"Shit."

Sighing at her clumsiness, Six circled around Dinky the T-Rex's broad green body and mounted the stairs. She found Boone pacing restlessly from one end of the dinosaur's mouth to the other.

He greeted her with a steely glare, not troubling to hide his impatience.

"You have proof?"

Six handed him the bill of sale she'd stolen from the locked hatch in the motel lobby. He scanned it over, his frown deepening.

"Hm. Not what I expected," he said at last. "For a long while, I figured it'd been Manny."

Six shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the other sniper, Boone's red beret still clutched between her hands. She'd been an accomplice to two murders in two days. Only somebody like Vulpes would think that was an accomplishment.

Boone snatched the beret from her hands and jammed it back on his shaven head, giving her a nod by way of thanks. "You came through better than I thought. Guess our dealings are done here."

The way he said it, it sounded pretty conclusive.

Six was surprised at how much the dismissal hurt, although she wasn't sure what else she'd been expecting from him. It's not like the guy was going to throw her a parade. Still, asking around town about the man, prying into his past – she'd started to feel...connected somehow.

Walking around with his dumb fucking hat hadn't helped the situation. She'd started to have a perverse affection for that ugly scrap of red felt and worn leather with the tarnished brass insignia pinned jauntily to its side. "NCR First Reconnaissance Unit," the crimson letters read, circling around the familiar outline of a two-headed bear. "The last thing you never see."

Quite a boast. Kind of made her wonder if Boone lived up to the hype.

"You hear anything about some Great Khans passing through?" Six asked. "There's this guy, he was travelling with them -"

"Another one of your 'husbands'?"

Ouch. That was probably the closest Boone ever came to making a joke and of course, it was deadpan and bitter as all hell.

"No, but if he were, I'd be filing for a divorce." She brushed her hair back from her face, showing him the spot where two bullets had left their mark. "That jerk shot me twice in the head. I figured I might track him down and return the favour."

Boone shook his head despairingly. If any of this came as a shock to him, he was better at hiding it than most folks she'd encountered. He probably figured her for the type who made a habit of catching bullets and chasing after dangerous men. He probably figured right.

"Manny used to run with the Khans," he said. "Overheard him saying something about Boulder City a while back. Didn't mean anything to me at the time."

"Boulder City. That's north of here, right?"

"Yeah. Gonna want to be careful though. A lot of Legion raiding parties through there. And the Khans are not to be fucked with."

"The Khans, I'm willing to negotiate with. The Legion – well, I'm not going to waste my time with talk." She patted her cowboy repeater.

Boone's face betrayed dull surprise, one of the strongest reactions he seemed capable of mustering up. "You're going after them. On your own."

"All by my lonesome. Unless you want to join in on the fun?"

She'd been joking – mostly, anyway – but he actually seemed to be considering it, furrowing his brow and staring down at the scuffed tops of his boots.

"You serious about this?"

"Sure. Why not? We have goals in common. The important ones. If we work together, we can kill a lot more of those bastards than we would alone. "

"Hmn."

Six was still trying to discern the innumerable meanings behind Boone's extensive repertoire of grunts. This one sounded almost approving.

"Snipers work in pairs, right?" she persisted.

He folded his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as if he suspected she was trying to sweet-talk him. Maybe she was.

"Yeah. That's true. Means we'd have to trust each other."

Paranoid as ever. Maybe she'd been silly to think he could get past the strange circumstances of their meeting or see her as anything better than some Legion whore, one he'd blackmailed into helping him.

"I guess it does. Have I steered you wrong yet?"

A crease formed in the center of his brow and for a moment, she thought her flippant response had spelled the end of it.

"Not yet." Boone put a strong emphasis on the 'yet'. He carefully folded the bill of sale and tucked it into his pocket. "Anyway, I'm finished with Novac. Guess I can give this a shot."

Six wasn't going to flatter herself. She knew his change of heart had nothing to do with her powers of persuasion or the enticing prospect of her company. As much as she might've liked a friend, Boone wasn't exactly a people person and it was clear from his cut-and-dried answers that he just saw her as means to an end, an excuse to get out of Novac and kill as many raiding parties as they could find.

That was alright by her. They both had scores to settle and two guns were always better than one.

They set out that night, moonlight silvering the edges of the highway, making the Mojave look tranquil and almost dreamy. Along the overpass, mangled cars and overturned transport trucks lay abandoned like the skeletons of long-slain monsters.

Six craned her neck back, gazing up at the night sky. It had been so long since she'd been free to look at the stars or enjoy the night breeze buffeting her cheeks. She bit back a smile – and tripped on a crack in the road, nearly face-planting into the asphalt.

Behind her, Boone gave a derisive snort. This was the most conversation she'd had from him in hours.

Six was about play off her clumsiness by coming out with something witty and self-deprecating when she spotted something moving in the distance, darting between two wrecked cars.

She crouched down, drawing her rifle.

Boone had seen it too and he followed suit.

"Legion?" she whispered.

Of course, when she said 'Legion', her first thought was always 'Vulpes'.

He nodded. "If we're lucky."

Six ventured a few steps closer before a silhouette rose from behind the car and started to fire on her.

They weren't lucky. It wasn't Vulpes or a centurion, not even some green Legion recruit looking to prove himself on a caravan raid. Instead, it was just some freaky-looking woman, tattooed and bald, except for two spikes of hair at her temples, which she'd waxed and twisted upward like devil's horns. She wore the ripped leather jacket of a Viper.

Six lined the gang member up in her sights and fired. The woman's head lurched back as the bullet caught her in the face.

Three more Vipers rushed them, one shooting a flamer while the other two wielded machetes. Pathetic, really – they were probably all hyped up on Jet and adrenalin, too crazy to realize they were literally taking knives into a gunfight.

Six took care of the one with the flamer and Boone disposed of the other two, ventilating their skulls before they managed to get within ten feet of her.

"Waste of ammo," he muttered.

"Not necessarily."

Six went rifling through the Vipers' packs for salvage. She sauntered back with a handful of 10mm rounds, a dog-earred copy of the Milsurp Review and a bottle of Sunset Sasparilla.

"See? Not too shoddy. We even scored ourselves a nice, cold drink."

She twisted the cap off the Sasparilla and took a thirsty gulp.

It was a nice lukewarm drink, actually, but then, dead Vipers didn't make the best vending machines.

When she offered it to Boone, he eyed the bottle warily for a moment, as if he suspected she might have backwashed, before deciding he was thirsty enough to risk it.

He took a long chug and sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

When he passed back the bottle, their fingers touched.

Six shied away, adjusting her grip so that she held the bottom of the glass instead of the neck.

"Thanks," Boone said.

"No problem. Share the wealth, right? Besides, I scrounged it off one of the guys you shot."

"Hm. I stand corrected. Guess he was worth the bullet."

Six took another sip of Sass, savouring the bubbles fizzing against the top of her mouth and tickling the insides of her nostrils. This was the taste of her freedom and it was a hundred times better than bitter drink. It was as enchanting as the stars above her or the moonlit highway under her boots. The open road was hers, she was a courier once more and death was the package she'd deliver.


	8. Straight, No Chaser

Boone did his best not to look, but there were times when he couldn't prevent himself from seeing. Every so often, he'd be staring into some perfectly innocent stretch of space and suddenly, Six would plant herself in his line of vision and do something provocative, like bend over.

Or draw her gun.

Or walk.

Or breathe.

It didn't help that he was more than a head taller than her, so that when she happened to be wearing that trampy-looking armour she'd salvaged off a lady merc, his gaze angled right down her shirt.

He'd always invent an excuse to turn away, suddenly becoming fascinated with the mesas rising in the distance or one of the few rickety shacks still standing in Boulder City.

"You alright?"

Six's eyes searching his face. Made him uncomfortable. Was she doing this to rile him up or was she really that fucking clueless?

"Fine."

"You look kind of queasy. You still have some water in that flask?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. That's good. No sense in getting dehydrated."

Thirst was the least of his problems, although he was having the familiar itch for Buff-out. An awful crave like getting a leg hacked off and still feeling it ache. Bottles of Sunset Sass, Nuka-Cola and irradiated water just weren't going to cut it. He wanted anger, not guilt or worse, numbness, the first step towards forgetting.

If there really were Khans in Boulder City, they'd be sure to be holding. He figured he could wander off and score while Six was otherwise occupied. She'd never have to know.

Not that it mattered what she thought. It wasn't as if he liked her. Didn't matter what her name said - Six was at least seven kinds of trouble.

Boone had taken all the usual precautions. He'd come up with unflattering theories to explain the bullet marks in the woman's forehead and her bad luck with worse men. He reminded himself to frown whenever she ventured a joke. He tried to maintain a distance of three paces between them whenever possible.

Unfortunately, he had to budge on this last one sometimes, just for practicality's sake. Sometimes he just miscalculated – his fingers would scrape Six's hand when he was handing her equipment or he'd blunder into her when she stopped short on a trail.

Her lightest touch was like scalding water. The thoughts that came with it made him dry-mouthed and panicky with guilt. Carla was dead, the baby was dead and he'd been the one to put them out of their misery. His own misery wasn't supposed to end, not ever, not after what he'd done to them and to those people at Bitter Springs. If he tried to run from it or drown it out, he'd just wind up hurting somebody else. He might still be breathing, but he wasn't allowed to feel alive inside. Not when he'd killed everything that'd ever mattered.

When he and Six had helped the attack on Legion troops at Nelson, Boone had been eager, too eager. His enthusiasm had earned him a bullet in the shoulder.

Stupid. Manny would've given him shit for it, told him to remember he was a damn sniper and to stop running around like some rad-crazy ghoul.

Six, on the other hand, was just as hyped up as he was, jumping right into the thick of it and the risks she took only egged him on. Crazy woman would be the death of him – but then, that's why they were travelling together. It was why he planned to stick by her 'til he got whatever was coming to him.

After they'd retaken the town, they set up for the night in an abandoned shack. It was run-down place, with water-logged walls and broken shutters, but most of the furniture was still intact. Not the worst place Boone had put up for the night. Not by a long shot.

Six perched on the edge of a ripped sofa, her gaze intent on his wound.

He shifted in his chair, drawing his shoulder back and out of her sight. He didn't like her concern. It was too intimate, too close to what Carla might have done, although he'd never allowed his wife to see him with anything worse than a couple of bruises.

Anyway, Boone figured he could wait for the doctor back at Forlorn Hope to extract the bullet and patch him up. He probably had at least a day or two before the wound started to fester and he had to worry about gangrene.

Six didn't take the hint. "I can help with that. Let me take a look?"

"Can do it myself."

She shook her head. "You don't make a very convincing liar."

"Hmh. Guess I need more practice."

"Or hey, better idea: you could let me examine your shoulder. That's got to hurt like hell."

He glanced at the bloody sleeve of his T-shirt. "Mostly numb now."

Six rose, circling around him. He could feel her eyes gliding over his back and his pulse quickened.

"Take off your shirt."

It sounded so much like an order that he had to remind himself that she didn't outrank him.

Boone pulled his aviators down the bridge of his nose, giving her an incredulous stare. "You're a doctor now?"

Six sighed. "I...Look, all I know is that this stuff makes sense to me. If you can bring yourself to trust me, I'll do a good job for you. You don't want to leave that bullet in there."

"Fine."

"Good. I'll be back. Get yourself ready."

With that, she strode off to the bathroom in search of water and her medical supplies.

It was good that she'd given him a little time to breathe. Gave him a minute to get his head around the idea. Prepare himself for the ordeal to come. He tossed his beret down on the table and peeled off his T-shirt, the thin fabric bloody and damp with sweat.

Six came back with a rag and basin full of water, the doctor's bag she'd bought from one of the caravans tucked under her arm. "Alright. We'll start out easy – get this thing cleaned and disinfected."

She handed him the Milsurp Review. "There's a good article on page 36, if you like. Thought it might pass the time."

Boone accepted the magazine, but flipped it to another section, careful to avoid the article she'd suggested. He looked at the various models of rifles displayed on the rumpled pages, paying particular attention to a full-page spread of a new anti-materiel rifle the Gun Runners had started to sell. He imagined the heft of it in his hands, how fucking righteous it would feel to set up in his old spot at Cottonwood and pick off legionaries, one by one.

He heard Six wringing the cloth into the basin. She started to wash the wound, dabbing the damp rag against his shoulder, then gently stroking downward, along his upper arm.

Beads of water streamed over his skin, a relief after the heat of the day and suddenly, Boone found it hard to focus on the words on the page. A stray droplet took a wrong turn, trickling over his chest and he shivered, annoyed to discover an erection swelling against the fly of his pants. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to conceal his arousal.

It isn't about her, he reassured himself. It's just physical. An old reflex. Happened to men on the gallows too. Something he couldn't control. Something he just had to sit back and endure.

She looked up at him, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. "How are you doing there? Am I hurting you?"

Either she hadn't noticed or she was really shining him on. He decided to try out another lie, his second of the day.

"Yeah. Hurts. A bit."

"Shit. Sorry. I've been trying to go easy, but it's important that we get the area clean. It's going to hurt a little more with the disinfectant. Prepare yourself."

He hardly noticed the stinging. Mostly just her breath fluttering against the side of his neck, her thigh rubbing against his knee. He leaned back in the chair and squeezed his eyes shut behind his sunglasses, thinking of Carla, trying to remember something good.

Just a few months before, he'd been getting liquored up pretty regular and it'd been easy to sprawl out on the motel bed and drift in memories of her body, warm and yielding under the sheets, recollections of her sweet, fleeting smile and the easy sway of her walk.

It was different now – he was beginning to forget what it felt like to hold her hand, although he could still remember her doll-like smallness, how her fingers were always cold. When he tried to recall her face, inevitably some of the features were misty, non-descript. Sometimes, he'd want to remember Carla, but when he found her, she'd be looking at him with another woman's eyes.

Six went to her backpack, digging out a bottle of moonshine. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to him.

"This might do you some good. The next part – it's going to get harder before it get easier."

Boone ditched the magazine and snapped up the bottle. He took slow sips at first, but it wasn't long before he gave up all pretences and started to gulp the stuff down, liking the way the rotgut seared the back of his throat.

By the time Six dug out the slug, plunking the bloody chunk of lead down on the table, he was gripping an empty bottle. The room orbited around him, a soft grey haze.

The blur of Six's face swimming into focus. Her lips moving, close enough to kiss.

"The slug was intact. Always a good sign. The worst is done now. I just have to sew this up and get you bandaged."

He blinked at her, dazed and a little drowsy. "Sorry."

"Boone, you were shot. You're doing fine. You don't need to apologize."

"Not that. Been a kind of an asshole. Maybe you didn't deserve it."

Six laughed. "_Maybe_ I didn't deserve it. Still not sure, huh?"

He corrected himself. "You _probably_ didn't deserve it."

She glanced down, struggling to thread her needle in the half-light. "I didn't take it too personally. I realize I didn't make a great first impression. You took a chance on coming with me. For what it's worth, I appreciate it."

Six stitched the seams of skin back together, her hands gentler than he ever would have expected. He flinched more when she was trying to bandage him up than when the needle was in his flesh.

She secured the gauze with a metal clasp. "Do you think that's going to be tight enough?"

"It'll do." Actually, from what he could tell, it was surprisingly good work. "Thanks."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Six smile.

Goddamn, but it was easy to make her happy. Probably just glad that he wasn't Vulpes. Probably just relieved that he wasn't going to beat her or interfere with her or drag her around by the hair. Because if she thought he was good company, her standards were pretty fucking low.

Boone stumbled to a nearby bunk and rolled onto the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. He pushed off his sunglasses and burrowed his face into the pillow.

When he shut his eyes, he found the old guilt there to greet him. Why did he...? Why did he let her..? Fuck. He shouldn't have...

He couldn't decide what he shouldn't have done but he could sense his own weakness - that little seed of temptation wedged under his skin, about the size and shape of a bullet.


	9. The Fox: First Interlude

**_The Fox: First Interlude_**

From recent experience, Vulpes had discovered that the costume of the NCR Rangers was actually rather comfortable. The broad-brimmed hats and beige duster of his latest disguise were certainly more practical to the desert than leather kilts and heavy armour, although Vulpes loathed the image of the rampant Bear emblazoned on the uniform's patches and gold buckles. When his gaze fell upon it, the inside of his mouth tasted sour and it was all he could do to keep his lips from curling back in revulsion.

Camp McCarran itself had little to recommend it. It was a place of high walls and barren tracts of concrete, a pen for degenerate livestock going to the slaughter. Vulpes eyed the troops as they milled around the tents carrying plates and thermoses, noting their bewilderment, their interchangeableness, the anaesthetized look on their faces.

Were they all doped up on chems? Were they all just one terrible hunger looking to be fed? Sometimes he wondered if such creatures were even capable of feeling pain or if what they experienced was just an echo of real suffering, something the profligates had learned to mimic from television and the radio. Vulpes had learned to simulate their emotions, to mimic such expressions for the sake of his various covers, but he couldn't fathom their purposeless, disconnected lives, their ceaseless blather about happiness and love.

In his own existence, he had experienced personal satisfaction, certainly, and the contentment associated with having fulfilled his duty or his body's simple needs, but he saw little need for anything else. For a time, he'd chastised himself, vexed at the idea that Six might have infected him with this degenerate notion of love. Now, thankfully, he knew that his folly had been merely lust and the pleasure of possessing an enthralling new toy, not anything that would drive him to moon over the simpering ballads played in ceaseless rotation on Radio New Vegas.

If his thoughts sometimes turned to the whore, it was only to contemplate her betrayal or to mull over tactics he might employ to avenge himself after his humiliation in Nipton and all the chaos it had wreaked on his life. If, on occasion, he wondered where she might be or found himself ruminating on the possibility that she might have taken up with the sniper or another profligate, it was simply because he owned her and he did not like the idea of insensible beasts enjoying what was rightfully his. If he was more tightly wound than usual, there were rational causes for his apprehension.

None of it had any relation to the brief, but shameful delusion she'd inspired in him – what he craved was retribution, to right his wrongs, not a woman's whisper in the darkness nor the sweet lasciviousness of her body entangled with his.

There were some bloodstains on the left sleeve of his ranger jacket, a remembrance of its original owner, an intrepid guardian of Ranger Station Charlie. The slack-jawed fools loitering around the airport terminal never bothered to question him on this minor detail, apparently more interested in slurping down coffee and flipping through pin-up magazines than minding their posts. If any legionaries had engaged in such absurd neglect of duty, Caesar would've ordered them buried to the neck in sand, their faces smeared with honey to attract the cazadors.

Vulpes had already radioed ahead to ensure that his agent was aware of his arrival and that the man had arranged a suitable alibi for the afternoon. It would not do to risk the operative's involvement in this, as he was already dedicated to the task of destroying the monorail and with it, McCarran's most efficient method of acquiring supplies.

It wasn't difficult to locate the holding cells. Vulpes flashed a security pass at a guard who stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest, eyelids dropping with boredom.

The woman in the room stopped pacing and turned to look at him, irritation marring what might have been an attractive face.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Vulpes could have asked her the same question. What was a woman doing playing soldier? He'd never understood why the NCR allowed females to fight for them during the years when they should be bearing children and overseeing households. If the women neglected their duties, was it any wonder that the men grew into weakness and complacency?

He imagined that this woman's masculine garb and swaggering mannerisms were probably intended to convince someone that she was tough as old brahmin hide, but like all the tricks of the NCR, it was a denial of her nature. Perhaps her father had wanted sons and settled for this pitiful substitute.

Such foolishness reminded Vulpes of Six and he had to push down a sense of abhorrence that might lead him to impulsive brutality. He'd never flinched from committing violence where it was needful, but he'd always striven to be rational in its deployment. It would not do to kill the deluded female too soon, he reasoned, even if she stirred up unpleasant memories of another woman, even more richly deserving of punishment.

He'd return to Six's case soon enough. Once he'd dealt with the problems presented by Lanius, Caesar and the succession, he would be able to send out a half dozen assassination squads and set a bounty on her that would have every legionary, Wastelander and profligate in the Mojave baying for her blood.

Vulpes tipped his hat to the woman, favouring his left leg as if he had recently been wounded in action. He adopted the slovenly speech habits of the degenerates, lazily slurring his syllables. "Ranger Alexander Forrest, at your service, ma'am."

She gave him a sceptical stare, hands planted on her hips. "That doesn't answer my question."

Under more favourable circumstances, Vulpes might have ordered those hands nailed to her hips and had those impertinent eyes plucked from their sockets and shoved down her throat. Regrettably, on NCR turf, with no legionaries to follow his commands, he didn't often get to indulge his taste for meting out imaginative sentences.

He darted a glance down at the name-tag pinned over the profligate harpy's left breast. _Lieutenant Boyd_.

"I hear that there's a centurion in here in interrogation, Lieutenant," he said. "Ever since I found out what happened to my buddies at Charlie, I've been looking forward to the chance to meet another one of these bastards. Don't suppose you'd let me have a word with him, would you?"

Boyd snorted. "Depends."

"On what?"

Vulpes raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to name her price. He'd never found it difficult to negotiate with profligates. It was easy enough to grease the cogs of NCR bureaucracy with a few filthy dollar bills, scraps of paper passed from hand to hand with as little compunction as the degenerates of Nipton sold their whores.

"It depends on what you mean by 'a word'," Boyd said. "Are we talking about a conversation here or are you planning something a little more forceful?"

He found his answer in her face. She'd been questioning Silus and judging from the creases in her brow, she must've been finding it more difficult work than she'd anticipated.

Knowing Silus, he'd blustered his way through, trying to put her off with insults and vulgarities. A crude tactic, but so far as he could tell, it'd served its purpose, managing to distract and infuriate his interrogator. At least the centurion had remembered some small measure of his training – although, notably, not the part about falling on his sword before surrendering to an enemy.

"I was thinking of something a little more...compelling than his usual entertainment," Vulpes told her. "Wouldn't do anything to get you in trouble, of course. You could come into the interrogation room with me, if you liked. To supervise."

Boyd sighed. "Why not? You fuck up, though, and it's on the rangers. I had nothing to do with it."

That was how a profligate would think. They were always trying to shift the blame to someone else.

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I don't intend to make any mistakes."

"Alright. Have your shot with him. I'll give you ten minutes."

She unlocked the cell and swung the door open.

Vulpes walked in and inspected the prisoner, enjoying the recognition – the delicious _terror_ – in Silus' eyes. If the centurion kept his silence, it was only in the hope that he was going to be rescued rather than assassinated.

"I know you've been lonely with just me for company, so I brought you a visitor, Silus," Boyd said. "He's been real anxious to make your acquaintance, but I get the feeling you're not going to be so happy about introduction."

Vulpes took a leisurely stroll around Silus' seated form, his hands laced together behind his back. "Oh, I don't know about that. What do you think, Silus?"

Silus' eyes darted between him and Boyd, with her scraped-back hair and her mocking expression. He slouched in his chair, an ugly smirk spreading across his face.

"Me? I'm just surprised you can still talk with your head so far up your own ass. Oh, and that ranger's uniform? Makes you look like a cunt-licker."

And to think that Vulpes had almost forgotten Silus' personal brand of wit, which revolved almost entirely around feces and orifices. It might've done well in the barracks, but it had little place before Caesar or at the officers' tables.

"I suppose we all have our talents," he replied. "For example, you, Silus, are remarkably adept at defecating with your mouth. A deplorable habit and one that I'm sure has not endeared you to the good lieutenant here."

"Yeah, this one is a real barrel of laughs," Boyd said. "Before I leave you two to your little 'chat', there's just one rule. No killing the bastard. You've got ten minutes on the clock before I come back from my smoke break, Ranger. Make them count."

She hustled towards the cell door, but not before Vulpes drew his pistol, training it on the lopsided bun at the back of her head.

"Lieutenant? Just one more thing..."

The woman turned, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the gun. Her expression was grim, fear tugging at the corners of her mouth, but she jutted out her jaw as if she was still the one issuing commands.

Vulpes had to give her credit for that, although such bravado wasn't likely to save her. He'd already been down that road with Six. He knew better.

"You're an idiot if you think you're getting out of here alive," she informed him.

"This will go much easier for you if you cooperate, profligate. All that Silus and I require is an escort. There's no need for any undue bloodshed. I'm loath to blow shards of your skull all over this nice clean floor, but if you force my hand..."

She offered him a defiant stare and sucked in a breath, as if preparing to holler for the guards.

At that, he lunged forward, pinning her against the cell door and pressing his hand against her windpipe.

The lieutenant struggled in his grip, her eyes bulging from her reddening face, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying lakelurk. Her knee jerked up, aimed squarely for his crotch but he shifted to the side, taking the blow on his thigh.

"That's not the way this is going to work, Lieutenant. I wanted to conduct this business in a civil manner. However, as you insist on being difficult, I'll have to take another approach. One that will be markedly less enjoyable for you."

He confiscated her sidearm, dangling it in front of Silus. The man's eyes grew large and greedy at the sight of it.

"I gather you haven't betrayed Legion secrets. I trust you remain a centurion?"

"True to Caesar," Silus said, reaching for the gun.

Vulpes shook his head and snatched the weapon out of his grasp.

"I never mistook you for a clever man, Silus, but I always hoped that you knew better than to try to deceive me. I am already well aware of your blasphemies against the Son of Mars. Do you think that I haven't been keeping an eye on you? What I'm curious about is your commitment to the Legion itself."

"It hasn't changed."

"Do you mean that? Or are you simply afraid that I'm here to help you slit your throat? If you were a good Roman, you'd have had the decency to fall on your sword."

The man scowled, lank black hair matted against an unshaven face. His eyes were bloodshot and there was an oily sheen on his thrice-broken nose that made it appear even more mashed and battered. He looked a disgrace and Vulpes wondered if it might not be better to kill him, lest the shame of the centurion's continued existence should hang upon him as well.

"I held up under the interrogation," Silus said. "I'm of more use to you alive than dead."

"An ignoble sentiment, but I suppose there is some truth in it, at least for the time being. Tell me, would you like the opportunity to redeem yourself?"

"Hell, yes."

"A decent response. Perhaps you aren't quite as hopeless as I thought. I'll consider the matter, centurion."

Vulpes didn't hand Silus a gun. Such a weapon would have been too much of a temptation to the fool. There was no telling what a desperate man might attempt for the sake of his 'freedom'. Instead of the pistol, he offered the centurion his utility knife.

Silus seemed to find consolation in even the most rudimentary of implements. He gripped the leather handle in his fist, running his calloused thumb along the blade's edge.

"Show the profligate what we think of her hospitality," Vulpes told him.

"I've been waiting to say 'thank-you' to this bitch for a long time."

"Make it fast. We haven't time to tarry."

The fellow did a much more creditable job of ensuring the lieutenant's silence than she had done of prying words from his lips. When it came to the brute task of slaughter, the centurion was as efficient as anyone might have wished.

Vulpes stood aside, careful to avoid the spurt and spatter of blood. When he was a boy, he'd been fascinated by death throes, but now, killing was mostly tedium, only slightly enlivened by variations in each victim's suffering, and the aftermath was unpleasantly messy. If he enjoyed anything about his work, it was the prelude, the foreplay.

When Silus had concluded his business, Vulpes picked a set of keys off the profligate's corpse. In their place, he put a handful of denarius along with a note written in Latin, detailing how the Frumentarii had ordered her to assassinate a captured centurion. He doubted everyone at the base would buy into the notion that the lieutenant was the Legion spy, but at the very least, it might muddy the waters and give his real operative a little more breathing room.

Vulpes found an NCR private's uniform in one of the nearby lockers and handed it to Silus. The centurion put it on, although it fit poorly and formed a ridiculous contrast with shaggy hair and a chin shadowed in black stubble.

"NC fucking R," Silus muttered, squirming against the bonds of a too-tight jacket. "Limp-dicked, festering eaters of rat shit."

Vulpes eyed him disdainfully, making a concerted effort not to breathe in through his nose. If anyone around here was festering, it was Silus. He smelled like the inside of a Cottonwood slave hutch.

"Centurion, you're shamefully uncouth. Not to mention your unfortunate stench. How many weeks has it been since the profligates allowed you to bathe?"

"Don't get prissy. Though I'll bet if a Frumentarius got captured and stuck in a cell for days, he'd come out smelling like fucking broc flowers and ladies' perfume."

That attitude was typical among the legionary rank-and-file and more common among decanii and centurions than Vulpes would have liked. Such perceptions had proven an impediment to his recruiting efforts, despite the fact his Frumentarii were easily the best-trained and most enterprising men of the Legion.

"Unlike you, a Frumentarius would never allow such an indignity to occur."

Vulpes jangled the keys in his hands, searching for the one that would open the back door of the interrogation cell. At last, he found the key that fit. The lock clicked and he shoved open the door, seeing the gravel path ahead of them clear.

If Fortuna smiled upon them, they might be able to steal out the back exit with minimal disturbance, making their way towards one of the Legion safehouses in the western hills. Despite the disaster with Six and his subsequent fall from grace with Caesar, he still had access to such havens and the communications equipment there would be helpful in rallying agents to his aid.

Vulpes decided that he'd wait a while longer to let Silus know his plans for him. He didn't want the man desperate, but he also liked to keep him just a little off-balance. Once they made the nearest safehouse, they could sit down over a meal and discuss what the centurion would need to do to redress his problems in discipline.

Vulpes wouldn't have gone to such lengths for just any centurion, but despite his putrid odour and the general stink of incompetence about him, Silus could still be of some use. For one thing, the fool was popular with the rank-and-file legionaries, who seemed to enjoy his thoroughly plebeian sensibilities. He claimed the loyalty of many of the men serving in Lanius' encampment north-east of the Dam, although it was difficult to say how much that affection stack up against their fear of the Legate.

In addition, Silus fought well enough and was capable of following orders that didn't entail surrendering his worthless life, although his pleasure in razing and pillaging always seemed to outweigh important strategic objectives. He was a resource – not a particularly valuable one, but helpful enough if one could work within the limits of his loyalty and cunning, neither of which was in particularly abundant supply.

The blood tie had little to do with it. After all, Vulpes hadn't intervened when nine other legionaries had beaten their older brother to death in a routine decimation. No, he'd stood very quietly at the edge of the ring, his hands clasped together behind his back, watching the dust rise in clouds around their kicking feet.

He hadn't felt anything but the heat of the noontime sun battering down against his head and he expected it would've been the same if his improvident younger brother had fallen on his sword or been shot by an NCR firing squad or had his head hacked off by one of Caesar's assassins.

Why, if Vulpes' situation were different, if the needs of the Legion had dictated, he surely would've been the one to arrange for Silus' assassination. If they'd both happened to pass a nine-month interval in the same tribal woman's womb, it was merely a peculiar coincidence, not the basis for any abiding loyalty. Silus hadn't been present on the day when Vulpes had nearly been crucified for insubordination, but Vulpes couldn't imagine the fool mustering up some unseemly rescue and indeed, would have been irritated if such a thing had been attempted.

Blood was worth little, unless it was blood one spilled for the Legion. That was an offering Vulpes had made many times over. Fortunately for brother Silus, nowadays, true to Caesar and true to the Legion were two very different things.


	10. Unforgettable

Six blinked awake, dazzled by the morning sunlight flooding in through the broken shutters of the dingy Westside room. She heard the bathroom door click open and glimpsed Boone padding back in from the shower, steam clouding the air.

Damn it. The big lug had probably used up all the hot water.

Six might've forgiven Boone if he'd been nice enough to walk out with just a towel knotted around his hips and give her a bit of entertainment. Unfortunately, he dashed her hopes on that count too, emerging fully clothed, as if he bathed in camo pants and those insufferably clingy T-shirts of his, the damp white cotton outlining the muscles of his chest and back in a most promising fashion.

Of course, she just wanted to look, not touch. Observing a magnificent male physique was permissible. Enjoying some scenic anatomy from a safe distance and maybe indulging in a fantasy or two was different from trying to throw herself at said body - particularly when it was attached to the winning personality of Craig Boone, the most unfriendly, taciturn and discouraging son-of-a-bitch west of the Colorado.

Six lowered her eyelids and pretended to be asleep, her face half-covered by the blankets. Really, she was intent on watching Boone run himself ragged, pushing himself through his morning exercises.

He'd observed the same routine since they'd first hit the road. He hauled himself up at daybreak to take care of his business. When they had the benefit of a room, he scuffled around the washroom, fogging up the mirror with his scalding-hot showers, pissing loudly and leaving the toilet seat up just so there wasn't any doubt that he had a dick between his legs.

Once Boone had decided it was mission accomplished on that front, he shielded his eyes behind sunglasses, shoved his beret on his head and set to meeting his daily quota of push-ups, his hands splayed against the hard wood floor, his back so straight Six could have used him for a coffee table.

He did so many reps she lost count and all the while, he seethed with anger, his panted breaths coming as a steady rhythm, one that might almost have been reassuring if she hadn't known he was suffering. He did jackknifes, crunches, sit-ups and even chin-ups, when he could find something to approximate a bar, performing each exercise with the same relentless fury, the grim resolve of a man taking his punishment.

When Boone finished, he crept over to his pack, eased open the zipper and rummaged around in there until he found his stash. Six didn't have to see the pills to know he was slamming back a Buff-out.

It was hard to broach the topic. She wanted to stop him, maybe help the guy out, but Boone wasn't somebody you could just sit down for a heart-to-heart. He didn't want to talk about it and he didn't want anyone's help – in fact, he would barely tolerate her concern.

Six had considered just stealing his stash one day when he wasn't looking and flushing it down the toilet. Boone probably would've been too embarrassed to call her out on it, so she wouldn't have had to worry about trouble there. Still, it was a short-term solution and chems were everywhere in North Vegas. If she didn't get things worked out properly, it wouldn't be long until he found the caps to buy himself some more.

She finally saw her chance while they were hunting fiends through the ruins northwest of Camp McCarran. Six had been scrounging through a dead fiend's clothes, a sad, dirty business, when she discovered a tab of Buff-out tucked in the back pocket of his hide trousers.

Turning, she held it out to Boone. "Here. I figured you might want this."

He folded his arms over his broad chest, refusing to take the bait.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because you've been popping a tab every morning since we got out of Boulder City. That supply isn't going to last forever."

He scowled. "Get that shit out of my face."

"Alright," Six made a great display of slipping it into her pack. "I'll stick it right in here. In case you're planning on sneaking back for it later. I wouldn't blame you for changing your mind. The stuff's very addictive. But I guess you're already an expert on that."

"Mind your own goddamn business."

"Look, as far as I'm concerned, the day we started traveling together, you made it my business. You think I haven't noticed?"

"Hmf."

"And Buff-out too, for fuck's sake. Turns you aggressive, cuts your impulse control, clouds your thinking. Doesn't exactly make for effective sniping."

Boone looked away, squinting at the horizon. "I know."

"So, yeah, the way I see it, every time you dose up on that shit, you're doing the Legion a favour."

His frown deepened. "Yeah. Maybe."

"And that's the way you want it to be?"

He shrugged, casting his eyes down to the dirt.

"That's no answer," she said.

"You can quit the angel of mercy routine. I'm not looking to be saved."

She threw her hands up in frustration, giving them an emphatic shake.

"Do you see any wings sprouting out my back? I'm not polishing my halo here. I'm just telling you to figure out your goddamn priorities. You think it's a good idea to yourself up on Buff-out like a blockhead? Pop back those tabs 'til you can't shoot straight? You want to do that, you go right a-fucking-head, but don't pretend you're here to kill Legion."

"I'm not pretending. Never lied to you."

"No. You never lie. You just sneak around and hide and put things off, tell me it's none of my goddamn business. Hell, if you bothered to lie, at least it'd show you were trying to be polite about it."

Six could have gone on venting at him, but she could feel herself starting to sputter. Besides, the angrier she became, more complacent Boone appeared, as if he didn't mind the abuse. In fact, the way he was taking it, it seemed as if he was almost...savouring it, as if he figured it was exactly what he deserved. She wasn't sure she liked that.

"Is that it?"

She sighed. "No, that's not it. Boone, if you want, I can get you some Fixer. We can mix it with the Buff-out then you can work yourself down in doses. You're still going to get a bit of withdrawal, but it won't be anything too bad. You don't need to messing yourself up on that shit."

The exhaustion in her tone appeared to give him pause.

"We'll see. Could be you got a point. Still doesn't mean I need an intervention. If I want to stop, I'll cut it out. Simple as that."

That was vintage Boone, acting like everything was a do-it-yourself project. God forbid he admit to needing a little help every once in a while.

Six decided to wait and let him ponder it over. Maybe he'd come around to the idea. She sure as hell hoped so, because as amiable as he was on the average day, he was going to be a real delight going cold turkey.

She switched on the radio to fill the tense silence that followed, listening to the dulcet tones of Mr. New Vegas. The man was a bit smarmy, but he knew how to lighten her mood. His choice of tunes was also a lot swankier than the crooning and yodeling on Mojave Radio or those crazy mutants yammering away on the Black Mountain station.

It took until the next afternoon for Boone quit moping around and make up his mind. She was sitting down on the stoop outside their boarding house, watching a couple of neighbourhood folks working in the community garden. He hunkered down beside her on the concrete steps, his shoulder nudging hers as he moved to rest his arms against his knees.

She was surprised when he didn't flinch away at the accidental contact. Had he finally figured out that she didn't have any communicable diseases? Was he finally convinced that she wasn't going to misinterpret a casual touch as some kind of come-on? The way he acted around her, she might've thought the Legion had turned her into some sort of irredeemable swamp monster – thankfully, she had access to mirrors every once in a while and was capable of seeing that she was scarred, certainly, but still attractive...maybe even pretty, if she ever bothered to get herself gussied up.

"Hey. So I thought about it."

It was a pretty vague statement, but Six caught the gist of what he was talking about.

"And?"

"You were right. Have to stay effective. Figure the, uh, Fixer can't hurt."

Six knew better than to smile or to show any signs of relief. Boone would immediately think it was smug, that she thought she knew better than him, or worse, he'd assume that she was having a joke at his expense.

Hopefully, once he'd flushed the Buff-out out of his system, he wouldn't be so paranoid, but Six wasn't too optimistic on that point. There was a place where the chems stopped and Boone began and it was likely that some of that mistrust was just in his nature.

She did a little asking around and found out there was a neighbourhood on the east end of New Vegas that specialized in producing and dispensing Fixer. Old Mormon Fort, they called it, and for some reason, the name sounded familiar, like something she'd dreamed and forgotten upon waking. Six decided they'd better head to this Freeside place and figure it out.

Freeside was livelier than sleepy, rundown old Westside, with flashing lights and dilapidated marquees that were a pale echo of the famed glamour of the Strip. Street toughs, merchants and criers lined the streets, hawking protection services, meats of questionable origin or places to get a good drink and a half-decent lay.

Six wasn't looking for any of this local colour so she kept right on walking. Boone trailed her with the same guilty, gut-sick expression he'd been wearing for the last two days, since she'd called him out on the Buff-out.

Old Mormon Fort was a primitive structure of wood and stone yet sturdier than most of the other buildings in Freeside. It seemed to come from an age of certainty, its rough-hewn walls built to last the centuries.

Six stopped short at the front gates, a spike of panic jabbing at her throat. She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

Boone's voice behind her, even more gravelly than usual. "You alright?"

She didn't know why she was so upset. If anything, Boone was the one who had the right to be nervous.

"You ever feel like somebody's walking on your grave?"

"More often than you'd know."

There was something about the place that reminded Six of another Fort, one she didn't want to enter unless she was armed to the teeth and out for blood. Mastering herself, she managed to push open the wooden gate, walking straight towards a security barricade.

A female ghoul in a cowboy hat looked her up and down, a funny expression on her shrivelled grey face.

"You're late."

She turned around, hollering towards a semi-circle of dusty white tents.

"Dr. Farkis! Doc! Come see what the nightstalkers dragged in."

Six glanced around, a little frantic now. The hard glint of the afternoon sun sliced into her eyes.

Boone stared at her. "What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

"Whatever it is, I'd tell you if I knew."

A woman strode up to them, her spiky black mohawk a strange contrast to the pristine white lab coat that distinguished all the Followers of the Apocalypse. She saw Six and her eyebrows nearly jolted up to her hairline.

"Dr. Margaret O'Shaughnessy? Dr. Julie Farkis. We expected you months ago."

Was that her name? It plucked a familiar chord for Six, like Old Mormon Fort, like the Followers themselves.

"I...I'm a courier. You were expecting a delivery?"

Julie shook her head. "Are you all right? You seem confused."

"I had an accident. I survived. A lot of my memories...didn't. This place - it seems like somewhere I should know, but nothing's coming back."

"Hm. Maybe you ought to look over the file they sent from Temperance Hills. There's a photo attached... and well, the resemblance is uncanny."

Julie darted a glance back to a lanky blonde man wearing thick black specs and a know-it-all expression. He'd been loitering around from the start, pretending to be absorbed in a ragged Pre-War tome, although Six was pretty sure he was just eavesdropping.

"Arcade, can go you pull the file, please?"

"Sure thing."

Arcade rushed back towards the white tents, lab coat flapping at his heels.

He returned with a file about a quarter of an inch thick. As he placed the file in her hands, he smiled and his eyes crinkled a little behind his glasses. Somehow, Six had the distinct impression he'd already skimmed through all her papers.

Six gave Arcade a nod of thanks and opened the file. She read the dossier like it was a storybook the nice folks in the lab coats had made up to amuse her.

Once upon time, there was a doctor named Margaret Ellen O'Shaughnessy, 28 years of age, unmarried and in good health. Educated by the Followers, her medical training and residency had been completed at Temperance Hills Clinic, NCR territory.

She'd lived a pleasant life, but she was sometimes bored with the mundane existence of a small town in a civilized country. She wanted adventure and a purpose, the thrill of the frontier, so one day, she'd struck out on a journey towards the Mojave Wasteland and New Vegas, the fabled neon oasis of the east...

Margaret had made the unfortunate error of leaving her emergency contact form blank. An innocent mistake, surely. She'd likely never imagined anyone would need it.

The woman shown in the photograph clipped to the top of Margaret's file had the same features as Six, but there was less wariness behind her eyes and her lips already curved into the beginnings of a smile, despite the fact they'd probably instructed her to keep a straight face. If Margaret could have looked into the future and known that somebody would hunt her down and pump two bullets into her head, would she still have worn that bemused expression?

Six stared at her own face, simultaneously so familiar and so foreign. This woman in the picture, she'd taken courier jobs to support herself during her training. They'd been a lark, a way to meet new people, see new places and walk away with a surprisingly decent payday. She'd been lucky all her life – until she wasn't. That's where Margaret had ended and Six had begun, born out of a shallow grave in Goodsprings Cemetery.

Six handed the file back to Arcade.

He glanced at it, blinking. "Uh, not to look a gift brahmin in the mouth, but you probably need this more than I do."

"I don't. That's not me. Not anymore."

Julie offered her the same look of concern she'd probably used on a hundred Freeside junkies.

"What happened to you on the way here? The last we heard word of you, you'd stopped in to pick up a package in Primm. One more delivery."

Margaret had probably figured it'd be easy work. Drop the chip off at the gates of the Strip and mosey on over to her new job with a sense of accomplishment and a fistful of caps. Six knew better.

"I wound up catching two bullets to the head. When I got back on my feet, I happened to stumble into Nipton. I don't suppose you've heard about Nipton?

Julie frowned. "The Legion razed the place to the ground. People were saying they slaughtered the whole town."

"Not the whole town," Six said. "There was a lottery. First prize winner walked away with his life. Second place winner, they busted his legs with a tire-iron. They took some slaves too. I was one. Hauled me out to the Fort and gave me the benefit of some good-old fashioned Roman hospitality."

Arcade gave her an inquisitive look. "It's fortunate you survived. _Per aspera ad astra_."

_Through adversity to the stars_. The man's accent was execrable. Vulpes would have had him whipped from here to Phoenix for such desecration of his native tongue.

Of course, Boone couldn't differentiate good Latin from bad stuff learned phonetically – all he heard was Legion.

He scowled at Arcade as if he expected the man would throw off his lab coat to reveal full centurion armor and the Mark of Caesar. "Where'd you pick that up?"

Arcade rolled his eyes. "Really, it's not what you're thinking. I read. Books. Funny habit, I know. Still, as far as I can tell, it doesn't make me a machete-wielding psychopath. So maybe you can cool your jets? Just a bit?"

Julie rewarded her coworker's witticisms with an admonishing look. She turned back to Six, putting on her most sympathetic tones. "You know, if you wanted to stay here for a while, we'd be happy to have you. You wouldn't have to see patients. You could just take some time to rest."

Six shook her head. The idea of being the Followers' pet project, another one of their saintly missions, made her feel like clawing the walls.

"No thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I've got other business to attend to."

Arcade looked baffled.

"What kind of business are we talking about here? Meetings with heads of state? Clandestine missions to save the world? Because, frankly, if I'd just escaped from Fortification Hill, I'd probably be spending at least a couple weeks rocking back and forth in the fetal position."

Julie reeled around, snatching the file out of Arcade's hands in undisguised annoyance. She passed it to Six.

"Just consider it, okay? You're welcome here, Dr., whenever you like. Anyway, I'm in the midst of a consultation, but I hope we can talk again soon."

Julie bustled off towards the Fort's guard tower, probably glad for the brief reprieve from having to deal with an amnesiac former doctor, a surly-looking veteran and her socially awkward colleague.

The aforementioned socially awkward colleague watched her departure with a rueful expression, as if well-aware that his attempts at levity had not been appreciated. Arcade nervously jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

"So... are you planning to take her up on that offer? Consider sticking around for a bit?"

Six had no interest in hanging around to be Julie Farkis' science fair project.

"I appreciate it, but none of you owe me anything. We just came here to pick up a few supplies, not to give you all some colossal guilt-trip."

Arcade smirked. "Aw, really? But guilt is what we Followers do. It's our _lifestyle_."

"Give us some Fixer and we'll be on our way," Boone said gruffly.

"Fixer, huh?" Arcade pushed his glasses a little further up his nose. "And there's another reason to stick around. Here in scenic Freeside, Fixer is our specialty."

Boone glowered at him, his usual misanthropy only intensified by embarrassment. Six was almost certain that if the sniper's eye had fired bullets, Arcade would no longer be in possession of a head.

"Hmn. You have a job description? Or are you just the asshole in residence?"

"The asshole Researcher in residence, actually," Arcade replied. "Not that I, um, actually research assholes. That would be proctology. In truth, I study the medical applications for various desert plants. And try to avoid talking to patients. For obvious reasons."

Six obliged him with a chuckle. Boone didn't.

When Arcade bolted off in search of Fixer, Six turned to find Boone looking at her. She'd become significantly better at reading his hieroglyph of a face but she still couldn't tell the difference between when he was pissed off and when he was just plain hurt. So far as she could tell, neither could he.

"Never told me about Nipton."

"You never asked," she said. "I didn't think you cared."

He sighed. "Well, you thought wrong. What'd you see in that file?"

She told him about Margaret, who she was, where she'd come from.

"So you're a doctor?" he said. "Figures. You're good at that stuff. Couldn't have just pulled it out of thin air."

"No, I guess I couldn't have."

"This new name of yours – it's going to take me a while to get used to."

He sounded almost apologetic, although she couldn't imagine why. She wasn't sure she liked Old Mormon Fort. Everybody around here wanted to coddle her like some bloody victim or strap her onto a gurney and declare her a patient.

"Don't bother. I'm Six. Everything else is ancient history. Another person's life. It doesn't matter now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Give me a cigarette, will you?"

"You don't smoke."

"I do right now."

He slid two cigarettes out of his pack, holding them between his lips as he lit them. He kept one and passed the other to her, cupping a hand around the lit butt to protect it from the breeze.

Six took a long drag on the cigarette then crouched down, setting her dossier on the ground. She set the lit cigarette on top of it, watching as the flame spread from the butt to the paper, a pyre burning the remains of Dr. Margaret O'Shaughnessy.

"Hmn," Boone said, and for once, that seemed to be all the eloquence that was required.

Somehow, she'd known that he, of all people, would understand.


	11. Viva Las Vegas

It took some serious doing before they managed to get onto the Strip.

Money wasn't the issue. Boone was the last person to be playing team accountant, but even he realized the caps were there.

No, the problem was that Six didn't know how to keep her head down and mind her own business.

The woman kept insisting how she wanted to bump off Benny, but then some kid would come up in search of a lost puppy or she'd find out that the Garrets were willing to pay for a debt collector. One whiff of trouble and she'd be the first one on the case.

"We could use the funds," Six would say, by way of excuse, even though he could hear caps rattling around in the back of her pack, more than enough to clear the security barricade into Vegas.

They'd spend the rest of the day traipsing around the city, shaking down deadbeats for pocket change and cartons of cigarettes.

Boone hadn't minded that last part. Coming off the Buff-out, he needed every creature comfort he could get. The smokes hadn't been his brand, but sneaking them out of the cartons was a better option than picking butts off the ground outside the Wrangler.

When Six wasn't dragging them into some mess or other, she was recruiting for their merry band of outcasts, fuck-ups and misfits. Anybody who could pull a trigger, handle an energy weapon or swing a two-by-four seemed to be welcome to enlist.

So far as Boone could tell, there was only one way to get yourself kicked off Team Six: say something nice about the Legion and you were done. This was a policy he couldn't find much reason to argue with.

The Mexican mutant they'd met in Black Mountain had learned this the hard way. He'd seemed alright at first, although he had the bad luck to be a ghoul named Raul and Boone could tell he'd heard all the jokes. Still, he'd been handy with tools and decent with a gun. Even kept the shadow of a mean bandito moustache on his parched grey skin, which was kind of impressive for a walking corpse. More tolerable than most people Six made nice with, or so Boone had thought, until the ghoul had busted out some bullshit about how the Legion had done good things for Arizona.

Six's eyes had gone hard and glittering as the noon day sun.

"Those are some interesting views. Interesting, aren't they, Boone?"

He'd snorted, already well aware that this was leading up to no good. "Not the word I'd choose, but I guess you could say that."

"Eh, just my experience, boss," Raul said. "People out here need order. The Wasteland is a hard place. The NCR, all they got is good intentions, taxes to levy and a whole lot of paperwork. None of those things is gonna make a lick of difference when a pack of Fiends come for your caravan."

The ghoul didn't know it, but he was just digging the hole a little deeper.

"People need law and they need order, but they sure as hell don't need slavery. The Legion will make the roads safe if you're willing to walk them in chains," Six said. "Tell me, have you ever talked to a slave before, Raul?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure."

She grasped the ghoul's gnarled hand and gave it hard shake. "The name's Six. Spent eight months at Fortification Hill. Was real nice to meet you. Now I suggest you turn your withered ass around and get the fuck out of here."

Even then, the ghoul couldn't quit playing the wise-acre. "Uh, boss? You realize we're in the middle of deathclaw territory, right?"

"Here." She handed him a Stealth Boy. "Guess you better use it wisely, huh? It's a long way back to your repair shack and the Legion isn't around to keep the roads nice and quiet."

Raul cast a glance back at Boone, fool enough to think he'd find sympathy there. "You gonna talk some sense into the lady?"

Boone shrugged his shoulders. "Like you said. Wasteland is a hard place."

Other than that notable exception, Six let just about anybody come along for their ride, so long as they were willing to lug her extra baggage around the Mojave in 90 degree heat. You'd figure most people would know better, but you'd figure wrong.

By the time they finally made it up to the Strip, Six had collected a know-it-all do-gooder in a lab coat, a shotgun-toting redhead, some Brotherhood scribe who never stopped yapping, a demented Super Mutant with a senior citizen's discount and a cybernetic dog named Rex. Boone liked the mutt best.

The Strip was just as bright and gaudy as he remembered it. Signs flashed from the casinos and hookers strutted up and down the pavement, putting on a show for a dazed gang of new recruits.

Boone had been almost as green as those boys when he'd first come here. Like them, he'd been gobsmacked by the sheer fucking opulence of the place, the marquees and the klieg lights, the fountains and crystal chandeliers that decorated the luxury hotels, the spire of the Lucky 38 like a big, glittering middle finger raised to the hard-scrabble Wasteland. The place was a pretty trap. He'd never quite gotten over that suspicion, even after he'd met Carla.

When Boone glimpsed the Tops again, his mind flashed back to that first meeting and how he and Carla had spent half the night in that lounge, drinking, while she talked to him about nothing and everything.

The way the light had glistened in Carla's eyes had seemed more meaningful than anything she'd said aloud, although she had a lot of words to fill up the silence. She'd sounded hopeful, full of expectations. He'd sensed that she was a different species altogether from the girls who eked out a living in the Wasteland, who wore drab clothes and wary expressions, who rarely smiled except in bitterness. By the time Carla had managed to coax him out onto the dance floor and her body had melted into his, he'd never wanted to let her go.

For just a moment, as long as it took for the blinking lights to circle the marquees or the fountain jets to rise and plash down against the concrete, the memory had come back vivid and clear. He'd seen Carla's face smiling across the table at him, her eyes offering the promise of forgiveness.

And then, it was gone and the coloured spotlights of the Tops flashed over his face. The crowd jostled around him, drunk and laughing, unaware that he had just seen a ghost.

Or maybe not a ghost. Maybe just a mirage.

What scared Boone was that it didn't always feel real anymore. He couldn't be sure that Carla had done all the things he remembered her doing or that she'd said all the words he put in her mouth. Sometimes, he remembered things that distorted the picture. Made him question the story he told himself. When that happened, there'd be a faint twinge of unexpected pain, like slicing himself while he shaved, blood seeping up through the bits of tissue he stuck to his chin. It hurt. But it didn't hurt enough.

While they were in Vegas, they stayed in the gilded cage of the Lucky 38's presidential suite, courtesy of Mr. House, whoever the fuck he was.

The place was cushy, but it didn't take a genius to know that all this luxury wasn't coming for free. House expected payback, a return on investment and Boone got the feeling that he wouldn't have a problem murdering his houseguests if they outlived their usefulness.

While everyone else settled in, Boone did a sweep of the place. He looked for surveillance equipment, checked for hatches that might admit Securitrons, eyed up possible escape routes. He didn't mind dying, but he planned to do it next to a pile of Legion corpses.

When he was done, Cass sauntered over and told him he'd be sharing a bathroom with the schizophrenic Super Mutant.

"You, Lily 'n' Leo got the bathroom at the end of the hall. And word to the wise: you might want to make extra certain you put the toilet seat down."

When Boone went to discover his sleeping arrangements, he found that they'd used a screen partition to divide the large dormitory into men's and women's sections. This was a relief since Lily snored, Veronica was too fucking chatty and Cass had a habit of stumbling back into camp at 3 AM, sloppy drunk, and tripping over his bedroll.

Meanwhile, Arcade was neat and quiet and not teetering on the edge of a psychotic break. Boone had spent enough time sleeping in barracks to know the value of these qualities.

When Boone went in to put away his gear, he found the researcher sitting on one of the bunks, his nose stuck in a Pre-War book.

"Hey."

Arcade shut the book, sliding a finger between the pages to mark his place. He prodded his thick black glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Hello. Sorry. There's quite a few books around here and it's hard to resist temptation."

"Yeah. Noticed."

Not that Boone cared. He wasn't much of a reader. When he saw a book lying around, his first thought was that it might make good kindling for the campfire. Wasn't a whole lot of wood in the Mojave and using sagebrush made for a whole lot of smoke.

Boone dumped his pack on top of the empty bunk and started unpacking his gear.

"So, what's your impression of this place?" Arcade inquired.

"Real nice for a jail cell."

"We're in agreement then. There's something sinister about all of this. I certainly hope Six doesn't plan on getting too comfortable here."

Boone shook his head. "Not a problem."

"Ah, confidence. Just what I like to hear. I assume you've discussed this with her, then?"

"No."

"Hmm. Perhaps you'd care to explain what makes you so certain?"

"Six doesn't do 'comfortable'. Woman either sees danger or she's on the look-out."

Something Boone had understood since the day he'd met her. Something he recognized from experience. He was surprised Arcade even had to ask.

"I suppose that's reassuring. Mr. House isn't exactly the type of man you should put your trust in – if he's still even...human. I don't think you get to be de facto ruler of New Vegas by being an affable, sweet-natured kind of guy."

"Yeah. Don't buy into this hospitality shit. Best way to wind up dead."

Arcade smiled, tilting his head towards Boone's bunk. "Does that mean I can have the chocolate mint off your pillow?"

Boone picked up the mint, examining the gold-foil wrapper. Logo for the Ultra-Luxe on one side. Probably hand-made at the Gourmand. Creepy, pretentious shit-hole. Never had gone within fifty yards of that joint and hoped he'd never have to.

He chucked the mint over to Arcade. "Enjoy."

"You know, I was being sarcastic. Mostly. But thanks. I appreciate it."

An awkward silence fell over the room, broken only by the crinkling of the foil wrapper and the sound of Arcade flipping the pages of his book.

Boone sprawled out on his bunk, folding his hands behind his neck, and stared up at the grainy plaster ceiling. He tried not to think, to just be, unblinking, focussed, like a gecko sunning itself on a rock, but his mind kept turning back to Six.

He hadn't seen hide nor hair of her since they'd settled in. Probably enjoying some privacy in the master bedroom or catching a little shut-eye in that queen-sized bed. It was funny, but he missed the days when it'd just been the two of them and the road. When Benny was dead and they'd settled up their accounts, maybe they'd go out again, once more for old time's sake, before they took that last long march to the Fort.

He rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt and touched his shoulder, tracing the ripple of scar tissue where the bullet had been. No pain, even though part of him wanted it. Soon, it'd be just a small white crescent on his skin.


	12. Crying in the Rain

When the message came, Six was huddled on the sofa in the master bedroom, trying to make herself cry. She'd been working on this project whenever she found herself with the necessary time and privacy.

It seemed like something she ought to be able to manage, considering how confused and overwrought she was feeling, but somehow the tears just wouldn't come. If it hadn't happened in the Fort, she didn't know why she'd thought it would happen in the presidential suite of the most luxurious and exclusive hotel in all of New Vegas.

The speaker on the wall crackled to life and she recognized Victor's hokey Western twang. "Howdy, pardner! I got a message for yer, whenever you're good an' ready."

She stood, dusting herself off even though her clothes were perfectly clean, walked out to the elevator and plucked the message from the steel claw of the Securitron unit.

It was an invitation to Gomorrah, the seamy casino with the shapely, fluorescent outline of a naked woman flashing from its marquee. Inside the invitation was a small square of black-and-white chequered fabric streaked with blood.

_Welcome to New Vegas. Word on the Strip is that you're an up-and-comer. So happens that we Omertas are in a position to do you a favour. We got the fella you've been looking to ice. You want to put him out of business for good, you pay us a visit. We'll let you do the honours._

_Nero_

_P.S. We want to keep this real low-key. Don't bring any of your paisans to complicate things or we'll turn you back at the door. Capesce? Good. _

Six frowned. Too fucking easy.

The Omertas wouldn't be seeking her out unless they wanted something and their insistence on her coming to Gomorrah didn't add to her comfort. If she went to their house, she'd be playing by their rules. She wasn't fond of the idea of putting herself in the power of a ruthless tribe of pimps, chem dealers and contract killers.

She called a group meeting in the kitchen to get everyone's opinions on the matter. They all trooped in and seated themselves around the long boardroom table, listening as she explained the circumstances.

Cass kicked back a swig of moonshine. "So, what in the hell are you waiting for? Mosey on down there and shoot the son-of-a-bitch. You wait too long an' the weaselly little bastard's sure to escape. If he does, you're gonna have a full-scale war on your hands, Omertas vs. Chairmen. Shit'll get uglier than a Jacobstown whorehouse."

Arcade looked aghast, although, surprisingly, not at the prospect of civil strife on the Strip. "There are...brothels...in Jacobstown?"

"Sure. Wasn't there for custom, but a gal's gotta drink somewhere."

"Uh, well, I guess even Nightkin have...urges," Veronica said. "I mean, if only pretty people got to have sex, we wouldn't have the Atomic Wrangler."

Lily patted Six's arm. "Jimmy, cover your ears now, sweetie. The grown-ups are talking about nasty, filthy things. You wouldn't want to start getting bad ideas, like Leo."

The Nightkin still seemed to be under the impression that Six was a small boy named Jimmy, which had made for some markedly awkward conversations. Six had tried to correct her at first, but it hadn't done much good. Nowadays, she just accepted it without ever actually admitting that she was the kid in question. It was almost nice, having an imaginary grandmother to fuss over her, even if 'Grandma' spoke in a thunderous voice and could probably rip a deathclaw's head off as easily as popping the cap off a Sunset Sasparilla.

Six was surprised when Boone spoke up. He usually kept to himself at group meetings, even when it came to topics he knew inside-out, only voicing his thoughts to her later when they were on the road.

"Omertas are bad news. You got to go, take back-up."

Six nodded. "They said they'll only see me if I come alone, but I was thinking that maybe, if you guys are willing, we could do something a little different..."

Veronica's eyes glimmered with the possibilities. "Different? Does this mean what I think it does? Are we going to go undercover and wear diabolically clever disguises?"

Six smiled, nodding. "That would be part of it."

One Vault 21 shopping spree later, they were getting dressed to play their respective parts. They'd decided early on that Lily and Rex were too distinctive-looking to come along, but everyone else was in on the charade. Arcade and Veronica were getting dressed as a hoity-toity couple from the Ultra-Luxe, Cass was posing as an NCR tourist and Boone...well, he had just promised that he'd make an effort to look different. Six wasn't sure what this meant. She just hoped that he'd consider taking off his beret. The thing sat on his head like a big red bull's eye.

Veronica went swanning around the suite, wearing a half-mask and a one-shouldered formal dress from the Ultra-Luxe.

"This is the best thing ever. Just so you know, I'm never taking off this dress. Never. Do you think I'd be able to find a power-fist to match? Accessorizing is so difficult when you're a woman on the go."

Cass, by contrast, looked miserable in her Pre-War spring dress, a slash of red lipstick on her narrow lips. She hunkered down on the sofa, auburn hair hanging limply around her gaunt face, and took glum sips from her emergency flask.

"Six, you bloody owe me for this."

Suddenly, she let out a loud guffaw, laughing so hard that she practically toppled off the couch.

"Ho-lee, shit!"

Six glanced up to see what had got her so tickled and saw Boone standing in the doorway, wearing a gray suit, a crushed fedora and pair of silver-tipped spats.

The suit jacket was made for a smaller man and the material creased at the top, pulled too tight across Boone's broad shoulders. Without his sunglasses, his eyes looked weary and almost heartbreakingly vulnerable, squinting into the faint light of the common room as if he were gazing at an afternoon sun.

He looked as if he was going to a funeral – maybe his own.

Cass kept chuckling, wiping tears out of her eyes. "Damn, I got to give it up to you, Army. Way to take one for the team. You look like a fucking undertaker."

Boone scowled, pulling the brim of the fedora lower over his face. "Doesn't matter what I look like. Just want to get this over with."

He glanced at Six, pointing to the silk tie draped around his neck. "Don't know how to tie one of these things."

She was surprised Boone hadn't asked Arcade, who seemed to know his way around most things that required a touch of Old World sophistication.

Maybe he'd been too embarrassed. She had the sense that Boone found the researcher's cleverness more than a little intimidating - which was funny coming from a guy who routinely faced down packs of Fiends and Legion raiding parties.

"Sure. I don't have much experience with these things either, but I'm sure we can figure it out."

Six took him into one of the washrooms so that Cass wouldn't be gawking at them and making her usual smart-aleck remarks.

On a more selfish note, Six also wanted to avoid the curious little smiles that Veronica threw in her direction every time she wandered within six feet of Boone. The scribe seemed to know that something was going on and had even gone so far as to ask her about it.

"So...Boone. What's up with that?"

"With what?"

"You know..." Veronica had clasped her hands together and fluttered her eyelashes, doing a cloying imitation of Six's voice. "'Do you have enough water, Boone? Did you want me to disinfect that cut for you? I can bandage it, too! You're a big strong man but you can just carry the light stuff. I'll make Veronica carry the heavy pack.'"

"I don't make you carry the heavy pack. And if I keep an eye on Boone, it's because he watches out for everybody but himself."

"Oh, c'mon. You're totally sweet on him. Have you been doodling hearts and flowers all over the front of your Pip-Boy or what?"

"No. I'm not out for that. I feel sorry for him, you know? He's had it rough."

"My mistake then. I totally figured you were crushing. Is he your type?"

"If I have a type, I'm guessing it's the kind of man I should be avoiding. Romance is...complicated."

"Oh, I hear you. You should try doing it in power-armour. Although it's much nicer with girls. Smells better, too."

Of course, Six had been dealing the woman a Caravan pack of lies and she imagined Veronica had picked up on it right away, having had some prior experience with denial.

The truth was, she was fond of Boone. She'd found him worryingly attractive from the get-go, but she'd never figured that she'd get sentimental over somebody who so clearly had no use for anybody's feelings, especially not his own. Still, his presence had become vital to her somehow, him and his frown and his dumb beret. Sometimes, in her weaker moments, she'd wondered what it would be like to be loved the way he'd loved Carla. She knew it was stupid to envy a dead woman, but that didn't stop her from thinking about it.

Six set to work on Boone's tie, making a loose knot in the grey silk. She looped the skinny end around again and pulled it down through the top of the knot.

When she reached up to adjust his collar, her face brushed against his and she flushed, annoyed at her clumsiness.

Boone shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket.

"Thanks for doing this," she said. "I'm going to feel a lot better going in there, knowing you'll be watching my back."

"Not a problem. Kind of strange wearing a suit. Wasn't this dressed up on my wedding day."

She paused, eyeing him up. There were a lot of memories for him here on the Strip. He was so quiet about everything that sometimes she tended to forget that.

"Have you been thinking about it a lot? Since we got to Vegas?"

"A bit. Not a bad thing, not always. It was a good day. At least the parts of it I remember. Was pretty drunk by the time we got up to the chapel."

"Sounds like fun."

"Guess it was. Wasn't exactly traditional. Though, if Carla had seen me in a get-up like this, she probably would've thrown the ring at me and run the other way. Might've done her some good."

Six shook her head. "That's a load of bullshit and you know it."

Boone didn't answer and so Six occupied herself with straightening his tie, admiring her handiwork. Not half-bad. Glancing up at his face, she noted that he actually looked quite handsome now that his posture had returned to its usual military uprightness and he'd adjusted to the strictures of the new suit.

She pretended to brush some lint off the shoulders of his jacket just for an excuse to touch him. It was something she'd never have been able to get away with before, but lately Boone had been a lot more tolerant of such closeness. Sometimes, he even seemed to go out of his way to walk next to her on the trail or sit across from her at the kitchen table.

"Anyway, don't listen to Cass," she told him. "You...you look great."

The compliment just seemed to confuse the man. His eyes narrowed slightly and she could see that he was struggling to formulate an appropriate response.

"It's okay. Don't need you to lie."

He took a step forward as if he planned to circle around her and make for the door, but she stood in his way.

"I wasn't lying."

He sighed, leaning into her slightly, as if he'd become too exhausted to stand.

"Should get your eyes checked. Anyway, I...I'm not who you think I am. I got bad things coming to me, Six. You get too close, they'll get you too."

"Boone, in the past year, I've been shot in the head, buried alive and enslaved by the Legion. I'd say bad things have been knocking at my door a long time before you came into the picture."

His hands encircled her arms, but it felt less as if he were holding her at bay and more as if he were grasping onto her, trying to prevent his knees from buckling under him and his body from sinking to the tiles.

"You don't know what you're dealing with here. You just don't know when to stay away."

Six gave him a slow, sad smile. "You're right. Never do."

Boone reached up a hand and at first, she thought he would brush her away, but his hand moved past her, shoving the door closed behind them. He pressed her back against the wall, kissing her hard on the mouth.

The sudden heat of it overwhelmed her. She was so surprised that it took her a second before she remembered how her lips worked.

He drew back, clasping her face between his hands, his grey eyes scanning her features. His brow furrowed and he looked almost dazed. She could tell that he'd acted on impulse and he was having trouble rationalizing what he'd just done.

"Needed to get that out of my system. Sorry. Wasn't a good idea."

"Boone..."

Six made a grab for his shoulder, but he shrugged her off, shuffling out the door like a sleepwalker.

She stared at her face in the mirror and at long last, she found tears in her eyes.


	13. Mambo Italiano

Gomorrah's interior had been decorated to suggest Old World Persia, but while she was hardly an expert on ancient history, Six was pretty sure Persia hadn't featured doped-up strippers dressed in leather dog collars.

Walking through the main lounge, she was careful to avoid making any prolonged eye contact with Cass, who was belly-up to the bar with a row of empty glasses set up before her. They'd all agreed to stick with their covers once they'd entered the building, but apparently, Cass was playing her NCR Tourist as a committed alcoholic.

She spotted Arcade and Veronica at a roulette wheel and they appeared to be having a ball playing a snotty rich couple.

Veronica accepted a cocktail from one of the waiters, holding the glass aloft as if it might be just as likely to contain cazador venom as alcohol. She gave a loud sniff, her nose wrinkling and her lips curling back in revulsion.

"At the Ultra-Luxe, they actually clean the glasses. Ugh, Reggie, why did you bring me here?"

Arcade squinted at the roulette wheel. Without his glasses, his gaze had a peculiar myopic intensity. "You must be tolerant, darling. We're mingling with the unwashed masses. You can't expect them to have standards."

Six hadn't seen Boone yet, but perhaps after that afternoon's incident, he'd decided to lay low. Probably for the best. Right now, she needed to keep her mind on getting rid of Benny, not on...distractions.

Big Sal opened a door at the far end of the room, revealing a narrow set of stairs. "This way."

Six dawdled on her way down the steps, intentionally dropping a Lucky 38 matchbook on the ground. She'd brought a few items from the suite and she planned to set them down at intervals to make a path for her friends to follow. If there was trouble, hopefully they'd be able to pick up her trail and assist her before it was too late.

Of course, Six had also stowed a silenced .22 pistol in the waistband of her skirt, just in case. It'd been tricky getting it past Gomorrah security and when the doorman tried to pat her down, she'd thought there'd be real trouble.

She'd grinned and arched an eyebrow at him like she was just that kinky. "How 'bout you work those hands a little lower, handsome? I came for the boys downstairs, but if you put on one of those leather collars, I could make an exception..."

The guard had given her an exasperated look and shooed her through the door. "Get outta here! I'm a married man. We got whores for that!"

At that, she'd turned back and blown him kiss. "Whatever you say, big boy. But you want to come on over and give me an extra thorough pat-down, you know where I am."

The hard-won pistol chafed against Six's hip as she walked, but it was a good kind of pain. It reminded her that she had something to work with – not much, but enough to give Nero and his boys a surprise if they decided she'd look cute in concrete shoes.

Big Sal lumbered along ahead of her, not bothering to introduce the rooms as they moved down the winding corridor. Sometimes the doors would be closed and in passing, Six would hear soft moans, wild yelps, the crack of a whip or a shrill cry – whether of terror or ecstasy, she didn't know. There were stories about this place and sick fucks that ran it. They'd do anything to please their customers, provided the money was right. Anything at all. The thought of it twisted her gut. These weren't the allies she'd wanted.

At last, they mounted another set of stairs and emerged in a pool hall, where Nero kept his office. Big Sal showed her inside and Nero rose from the couch to greet her.

He was a compact man, swarthy-skinned with beetle brows and a hawk-like nose. His pin-stripe suit and the slight heels on the bottom of his spats were clearly intended to make him appear taller than he was.

A man in a chequered suit kneeled in the corner, bounded and gagged. He had the face of a naughty, dissolute boy and from the panic behind his eyes, Six could tell he remembered her, even if she didn't remember him.

Benny.

"Recognize our guest?" Nero inquired. "Such a happy reunion."

Six offered Benny a smile, one that made unpleasant promises. "Oh, yes. I've been looking for him for a while. Nice of you to help bring us back together."

Benny's reply was muffled by his gag. His limbs twisted in their bindings.

"Before we let you two get re-acquainted, there's a little business we gotta discuss," Nero walked around to the side of his desk. "Why don't you take a seat? Get yourself comfortable."

Six sat down on the couch, resting her hand on her hip, where her pistol was stowed. She bent forward, pretending to fix the line of her stockings. Her fingers tugged the pistol free of her waistband, so that the weapon was only hidden by the flap of her leather jacket.

"So what do you want to discuss?" she said. "I don't suppose you need me to deliver a package for you?"

Nero flipped on the ham radio at his desk. "It's not me that's gonna do the talking."

He picked up the transmitter. "Eh, we're ready when you are. Bitch came, just like you said she would."

The voice that floated back across the airwaves was just as silvery and precise as Six remembered. When Vulpes spoke, the temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees. "Excellent. Nero, you continue to prove your worth. Make her speak. I wish to hear her voice."

Nero fixed his gaze on her expectantly. "Come on now, sweetheart. Let my friend know you're here."

Six was torn between speech and silence. If she kept quiet, she could make Nero look like a fool. If she replied, however, she might be able to suss out what was going on between the Omertas and Caesar's Legion, undoubtedly valuable information. At last, her curiosity won out.

"Hello, Vulpes," she said. "I haven't been keeping up my Latin."

"That is a shame. In any case, I doubt you'll have much use for it. The dead have little need for languages."

She forced a laugh, refusing to let him catch the fear in her voice. "I don't know. You might be surprised. I could come back to haunt you. Ask Benny here. He's had some experience with that."

"Defiant until the end. I'm sorry that I'm not there to see it. I would have liked to nail you to a cross and watch the light fade from those pretty eyes."

"Oh well. Guess we'll always have Nipton."

He gave a low, dry chuckle and Six pictured a malevolent smile cutting across his narrow face. When he'd made that sound, she'd never known whether to expect a kiss or the back of his hand. It still made her heart drop to the floor of her stomach.

"Indeed, we will. I won't forget that lesson, I promise you. I trust you won't forget yours. But now, I fear it's time to say farewell."

As he addressed Nero, his voice returned to its usual chilly tone of command. "I want to hear the shots. When she is dead, you will send me her bod-"

His words were lost in the gunfire.


	14. BANG BANG

Oh, Vulpes heard shots, all right. One drove right through Nero's forehead, leaving a damp red stain on the wall.

Six spun around, ready to deal with Big Sal, when the door burst open behind him to reveal Boone holding a pool cue. He cracked the gangster over back of the head with thick end, sending him reeling forward, his fedora rolling across the floor.

"You okay?"

Six nodded, putting three rounds into the back of Sal's fat head. She was always careful about making sure her enemies were good and dead. She liked to think she wasn't going to repeat Benny's mistake.

Cass poked her head around the door. She was carrying a pearl-handled pistol in one hand and a bloody knife in the other. Six was pretty sure there was a story behind that, probably one that the infamous Whiskey Rose would recount in gory detail once they got back to the Lucky 38 and started raiding the mini-bar.

"Howdy. Any rat bastards need killing in here?"

"Just Benny. And that rat bastard's all mine."

"Oh, you're so possessive with your men. Ain't you never heard of sharing?"

The radio crackled with static, Vulpe's voice barely audible. "Nero? That was more than one shot. I believe I told you that I wanted to keep this clean..."

Six glanced from the radio to Boone. He was the likeliest candidate in the room to be able to successfully pass his voice off as that of an Omerta.

"Tell him I'm dead," she mouthed.

Boone narrowed his eyes at her, either in confusion or annoyance, but at last, he dutifully trooped over to the transmitter.

"She's dead."

It was not the most convincing performance Six had ever heard. Vulpes' bullshit detector was probably going off like a Geiger meter at Camp Searchlight.

"And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" Vulpes inquired.

"Big Sal," Six whispered.

"It's Big Sal," Boone said. "I work for Nero."

"You seemed rather uncertain of your name."

Arcade and Veronica came barrelling into the room, looking like they'd just faced down a mob. Arcade's bow tie had come undone and his laser pistol was drawn, while Veronica seemed to have pilfered a tire iron off one of the guards.

Six scuffled forward, doing her best to quiet them before they could offer any explanations.

"Yeah, well, uh, I go by Sal sometimes. For short," Boone elaborated.

Cass slapped her forehead in despair. She looked about ready to swipe the transmitter from his hands and see how well she could improvise.

"Well, I suppose some confusion is to be expected," Vulpes replied, "considering your real name is Corporal Craig Boone and you are a former NCR sniper from Novac. I could say more, of course, about your troubling military record, your ill-fated marriage to a certain Carla Saunders, your crippling emotional issues, but I'd much rather speak to our mutual friend than discuss the petty details of your worthless profligate life."

Boone's hand white-knuckled the edge of the desk. It occurred to Six that he might smash the transmitter, but instead, he thrust it into her hands and shambled over to the sofa, slumping down on the cushions with a heavy sigh.

"I told you I'd come back to haunt you," she said into the transmitter.

Vulpes didn't sound nearly as annoyed as she thought he would be. In fact, his voice might have contained a hint of amusement. "You kept your word. How...uncharacteristic of you."

"And you've never told a lie."

"Only for a noble cause."

"There was nothing noble about Nipton," she retorted.

"That town again. Tell me, does it haunt your sleep? What I did to those profligates? What I did to you?"

The fact she'd hunted Legion raiding parties halfway across the state just to get a piece of him was a dead giveaway on that front. He didn't just menace her sleep, he owned her wakefulness.

"Let's put it this way, Vulpes: I'll sleep a lot better when you're dead."

His voice wrapped around her, a soft indulgent thing like silk.

"I suppose you lie alone in bed and torment yourself with thoughts of me. Do you touch yourself while you do it and remember how I touched you?"

Her cheeks flamed red and she suddenly became very conscious of Cass staring at her, while everyone else had the good sense to avert their eyes. "Don't fucking flatter yourself."

"Very well. Put on a show for your travelling companions. You'll recall that things were very different when it was just you and I in the darkness. I wonder...do you let the sniper use you thus?"

Hate boiling inside her, scalding her stomach, scorching her throat, unquenchable hate that hurt even worse because it was so close to the pangs of love.

"Fuck you."

She could hear the triumph in his voice.

"I see I hit a sore spot. It must be troublesome, always having to prostitute yourself to the first man who'll save your precious skin. Does it make you feel powerful, I wonder? You were always so skilled at manufacturing affection. If you're listening, Corporal Boone, take heed."

She darted a glance at Boone. He steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.

"And you were always so good at speeches, Vulpes," she said. "I never could compete. So, instead, I'd like to give you one of those object lessons you were always so fond of."

Six spun around, leaning her back against the desk as she cast her eyes around the room.

"I really wish you could be here to see this, but I'll just have to describe it to you. Nero's brains are all over the wall. Big Sal is decorating the floor like a bearskin rug. The only one left is Benny. I'll bet he's feeling awful lonely right now."

She turned to Cass. "Take the gag off him, will you?"

"Ha, this should be rich."

Cass sauntered over and pulled the cloth out of Benny's mouth.

Benny worked his jaws, finally managing to make his lips form words.

"Look, you wouldn't shoot a man when he was down, would ya? You're not a fink. What happened with you and me, it wasn't anything personal, baby. Hey kid, you know, I could help you out. I know people, I know everybody..."

"You're right, Benny. It wasn't personal. This is just business. That's why I'm going to make this simple for you."

Six showed him her pistol. "I'm just a courier, Benny. I deliver packages. For you, I have two bullets. No more, no less. If you survive, I'll let you crawl out of here. I won't even make things hard and bury you under three feet of sand. If you die...well, viva las Vegas."

She lifted the gun up to his face, letting him stare down the muzzle with those doleful brown eyes. She let him contemplate it the weapon for a few moments, how it would feel when the bullets drove into his head at close range, how he'd look laid out on the carpet with a ventilated skull.

"Aw, shit, no," he whimpered. "Please, don't fucking do this. I can..."

She fired twice into Benny's forehead, blood splashing back against her jacket and spattering the padded shoulders of his snazzy suit.

A well-dressed corpse hit the carpet, two red holes drilled in his forehead.

Six turned back to the radio transmitter. "One down, Vulpes. Just have you to go. And with you and me, I think it might be personal."

"It's certainly personal," Vulpes said. "Without a doubt. However, I hope you aren't too excited about having killed the Omertas. I planned for this possibility. If you must know, you did me a favour."

"Glad you think of it that way because I'm planning to kill a lot more of your friends in the very near future. _Vale_, you fucking bastard."

She switched off the radio before he had a chance to answer and heaved a deep sigh, leaning her elbows on Nero's desk.

Somehow, killing Benny hadn't been nearly as satisfying as she'd anticipated.

Of course, compared to Vulpes, the leader of the Chairmen was just some pathetic wannabe gangster, an overgrown kid dressed up in a slick suit who'd ripped his slang from Frankie and his hair from Dean-o.

"Well, that was dramatic." Arcade wiped his glasses off on the bottom of his jacket before replacing them on his nose. "Don't mind me. I'm just going to go puke in the corner now. Nothing to see over here."

Veronica looked down at the bloodstain on the hem of her dress. "Oh, darn it. You know it's never going to come out. This always happens when I get nice clothes."

Six rifled through Nero's papers, unsure of precisely what she wanted to find. The deeds to the place were still intact and judging from the balance sheets, the place was heavily in the black – not much of a surprise for a whorehouse located in the middle of the Strip. In New Vegas, sex was a growth industry and everybody was investing.

She stared at the totals at the bottom of the ledger. Maybe Vulpes hadn't suffered from the end of the Omertas. Maybe it really was no loss to him. Still, it didn't mean she couldn't make it her gain.

"So...you guys ever wanted to own a brothel?"

"Just about every day of my life," Cass said.


	15. Shake, Rattle and Roll

Arcade shook his head despairingly. From the way he squinted at her from behind those square black glasses, she could tell he was wondering what sort of damage those two bullets had done to her frontal lobe.

"You're being serious, aren't you? You realize that if we take this place over it's going to require a substantial investment of time? I don't even want to think about the costs..."

"Hey, it would give us an alternative to the Lucky 38," Six said. "Everyone could have their own private suite. And the place probably rakes in half a million caps a day. Even if we didn't run the tables, we'd still have the slot machines -"

"And the slut machines."

Cass laughed at her own joke.

Arcade rolled his eyes. "That's classy. Really, just charming. Look, am I the only one here who thinks this is a terrible idea? Veronica? Boone? C'mon, Boone, I know you have to hate this. This place is freaking sordid, people!"

Boone lowered his head, his face shadowed by the brim of his fedora. "A lot of guys from McCarran around here. Better they go someplace safe than give their caps to assholes working for the Legion."

Veronica nodded. "I think it could be sort of fun. We could re-decorate. This whole creepy sex dungeon thing is so last season. If we're going to run a sex dungeon, I think we should make it nice and cheery. Change the wallpaper and keep the floors from being so...sticky."

Six shot her a smile. Count on the fast-talking scribe from a dank underground bunker to turn this into a question of interior decor.

She looked back at Arcade, who was wearing a martyred expression, casting his gaze up to the ceiling as if he expected the heavens to split wide open and some Higher Power to swoop down and intervene on his behalf.

"We'd run it ethically, Arcade. I'd hire good managers and make sure they treat the employees well. It'd be better than what'll happen if we just leave this place. If the Khans get wind of this or what's left of the Van Grafs..."

Arcade finished her sentence. "They'll horn their way in and we'll have even more thugs, chem dealers and sadists to contend with. Alright, point taken. Still, I don't know where you're going to get a manager..."

"Francine Garret. You think she isn't dying to get out of Freeside?" Six said. "Besides, I think this place could use a woman's touch, don't you?"

"Not that it's done much for the Wrangler," he muttered.

"We have resources the Wrangler doesn't. It's the same business model and the Garrets aren't too squeamish to get things done. We'll try Fran first and if she doesn't bite, we'll get James. He still owes me for FISTO."

Arcade sighed. "Fine. I guess it's...feasible."

"I'm glad you think so, because there'll be work ahead. I want to run a nice decent whorehouse, not a damn plague zone."

"In other words, I'm going to be running STD tests for next two weeks, aren't I? Ah, it almost makes me nostalgic for Freeside. There's no place like home."

Six sent Veronica out to talk to Mick, dispatched Cass to negotiate with Francine Garret and assigned to Boone to get Lily and Rex and start moving their stuff out of the Lucky 38.

"Won't be missing that place," Boone said. "You should be careful around here though. There'll be some pissed-off Omertas on the Strip. Could be reprisals."

Six sat down at Nero's desk. She hadn't thought of that. Still, if they wanted to come after her, they'd find a way to do it, whether she was staying at Gomorrah or holed up in the Lucky 38.

"You're right. I'm hoping to do a little damage control, but we'll need security. Don't suppose you would be willing to manage that until things quiet down?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Can do that. Six..."

"Yes?"

"Sorry. About what happened. Earlier."

"I'm not."

It'd felt...right. More right than it should have, considering who they were and what they'd both come from.

Boone looked down at the palms of his hands, as if he'd find the answer written there in black marker.

"Probably best to keep things simple."

Six thought back to what Vulpes had said. Her friends weren't stupid – they'd probably already guessed that her time at the Fort hadn't simply been about fetching water and polishing armour before Vulpes had spelled it out for them. Now, of course, they didn't have to speculate. They knew what she'd done and worse, what she'd sometimes almost...liked.

She'd seen the way they'd looked at her after she'd shot Benny – with pity, knowing that Vulpes had tarnished her victory, had somehow managed to worm his way into it so that all she could hear was his snide voice and all she could envision were his steely eyes glinting with contempt. She didn't imagine Boone could find that too appealing, all the baggage she was hauling around. He was lugging around enough of his own.

"If that's what you want."

He turned, heading for the door. "Has nothing to do with want."

Six spent the next few days doing damage control on the Strip. Her first destination was Mr. House's presidential suite.

The dapper, moustached man on the computer screen fixed her with an expectant stare. "Have you brought me the Platinum Chip?"

"I haven't found it yet," she lied. "I think it might be at Benny's suite at the Tops. I can't get in there until the Chairmen stop thinking I killed their boss."

In fact, Six had plucked the Platinum Chip out of the pocket of Benny's suit while his body was still warm and tucked it into the safe in her bedroom at Gomorrah. She just wasn't going to hand it over to House until she knew what it did and precisely what he planned to do with it.

Arcade had suggested it might be a computer chip. That seemed like a plausible theory, especially considering House was so dependent on robots. From what Six could tell, he was likely to be a cyborg himself. A software upgrade would spell bad news for the renegade elements of Freeside.

"Their assumptions are correct, are they not? You did kill Benny?"

Whatever else House was, the man was a control freak and it gave Six a special joy to remind him that he couldn't treat her like one of his Securitrons.

"Of course I did. But they don't have to know that. Wouldn't it be so much pleasanter if they thought you sent me there to rescue Benny from those filthy Omertas?"

"Hm. Go on."

"When I found poor Benny murdered, execution-style, naturally I killed every Omerta I could find. After all, Benny and I may have had our differences, but no one gets to cross Mr. House."

"A good moral for any story. Be certain that you heed it. I believe I can convince Swank to make you welcome at the Tops. Although, I will admit to having some qualms about some of your recent choices. Your decision to move out of the Lucky 38 seems rather precipitous..."

She opted to take the much-too-intimate approach. House was all business all the time and any mention of personal details had a way of shutting down his lectures. "The Lucky 38 is a bit lonely for my tastes. If you, um, get my meaning. The Gomorrah is so much more accommodating to my unique lifestyle."

House's on-screen avatar frowned. "As revolting as that is to contemplate, I appreciate you not turning my establishment into a den of iniquity. You are dismissed. For now. I'll warn you, however: I have never been a patient man, Courier Six. I'm expecting results."

Six tossed a reply over her shoulder as she strolled towards the door.

"Don't worry. I always deliver."

The next morning, she switched on Radio New Vegas and heard Mr. New Vegas giving his usual patter between songs.

"And in other news, the Omertas are no longer calling the shots at Gomorrah, after an ill-advised betrayal of Mr. House. Having killed Benny, the top guy at the Tops, the Omertas were taken down by several of House's employees in what witnesses had described as the biggest cock-block ever to hit New Vegas. Gunned down in Gomorrah – well, that's got be a real kick in the head. This one's for you, Benny."

The familiar first notes of "Ain't That a Kick in the Head" came blaring from the radio.

Six reached over, flipping the dial to the Mojave station. She wasn't in the mood for Mr. New Vegas' ironic taste in song selections.


	16. The House of the Rising Sun

Friday nights were busy in the lower dens of Gomorrah and tonight was no exception. Since Boone had come on duty, a bunch of troops had staggered in, kids just out of basic. They'd clustered around the main stage, swilling back drinks like their next stop was Camp Forlorn Hope.

A drowsy-eyed dancer writhed around the brass bar, cupping her tits in her hands, rolling her hips in gentle circles. She looked about as excited about her work as your average NCR paper-pusher and Boone figured she was probably doped up on something. Was sadder than it was sexy, but he was having trouble explaining that to his cock.

Since he'd started running security for the joint, these unwanted reactions had become a regular thing. It didn't leave Boone in the best of moods.

Some of the strippers weren't even pretty, not if you saw them in the morning, shuffling around the courtyard in their satin robes, all lank hair and last night's make-up. They had the essentials though, and it was hard not to notice when a couple of the dancers would get together and start...doing things on stage. Some of the stuff they got to up there...well, Boone might have considered those activities worth investigating behind closed doors, but in public, with a bunch of soldiers gawking and hooting, it just seemed plain wrong.

At the appearance of cash, the dancer got a sight more enthusiastic about her business. She shimmied to the far end of the stage, letting the soldiers stuff money into her sparkly nude G-string.

Boone wondered if nobody had told her that the NCR $5 bill was hardly worth the paper it was printed on. He and Manny used to light cigars with them just for laughs, before he'd met Carla and tried to straighten up his act.

One of the soldiers was trying to climb onto the stage, propping himself up on his buddies' shoulders.

Boone shot up and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him back. "Sit your drunk ass down and enjoy the show."

The soldier pointed to the dancer. "But I gotta dance with my wife. That's my wife up there."

His 'wife' was currently shaking her tits in some other guy's face.

Fucking New Vegas. Nothing had changed.

Boone sighed. He decided the tallest one of the group looked the most sober and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Keep an eye on your buddy here. He's gonna get himself hurt if he's not careful."

He made it sound like a threat, but it was just a warning. He'd been there before, falling for some pretty, smiling face, only to wake up alone the next morning in a seedy motel room and discover he'd been cleaned out during the night.

Those days had ended when Carla had come along and he'd put a ring on her finger. She'd been honest. She'd stuck it out, even if she didn't always like it, even if, sometimes, he had the feeling she didn't always like him.

Of course, in the end, the results hadn't been much different. Another motel room. Another empty bed. Just worse, a thousand times worse, because his wallet had still been full of caps and he'd seen all her dresses still hanging in the closet. He'd known then that she hadn't left willingly. Woman might have dropped him like a bad habit – he wouldn't have blamed her for that - but she'd never have abandoned her beloved New Vegas wardrobe.

Fucking Novac. He'd really thought they'd be happy there.

And now he was getting depressed. Funny how easily that happened in Gomorrah.

Boone nodded to the ghoul behind the bar, raising a hand to signal 'one more'. He didn't know the guy's name but he was one of the rare ones who didn't water down the drinks.

He sipped the G&T slowly, trying not to think about how nice it'd be to score himself some Buff-out and feel that power, pure adrenalin, coursing through him. Ever since Six had talked him into dropping that shit, he'd felt different – better, for the most part, but sadder, less in control of things.

Sometimes things would just slip out. He'd say more than he meant to or he'd find himself actually paying attention to something Cass or Veronica were yapping on about and maybe even agreeing a little bit. Or worse yet, he'd kiss Six and make everything so damn complicated that he couldn't sit in the same room with her without thinking about doing it again.

Something nudged up against Boone's leg. He looked down and saw Rex crouched at his feet, eyes bugged out and tongue lolling, panting as if he'd come running from the other end of the Strip. His tail thumped against the grimy floor.

Boone reached down and scratched behind his ears. "Hey. Good dog."

Rex frisked happily around the barstool, his robotic joints clicking together.

"Good boy," Boone said, patting him on the head.

It was nice when things were that simple.


	17. The Fox: Second Interlude

Vulpes had accumulated three centuries of legionaries now and that was enough to steel his resolve. He'd sought out his allies, made his plans and laid down his stake. _The die is cast_, as Caesar was so fond of saying.

Vulpes had never liked that phrase, thinking that it credited too much to chance. In this case, however, it was an apt description of the gamble he'd taken up, driven by the knowledge that he'd stepped too far out of ranks and he could no longer compromise and prevaricate, chafing under Lanius' bullheadedness and Caesar's increasing debility. Soon, he would have to cross the Colorado and discover his fate, whether it was for good or ill.

His ragtag band of legionaries paled in comparison to the numbers Caesar and Lanius boasted in their respective encampments. He wouldn't deceive himself on that point. Yet, if Operation Ides of March succeeded according to plan, it would be speed and boldness that would determine his fate, not popularity. Besides, he had Silus to manage the plebs for him, to dispense denarius and slaves, bread and circuses, slaps on the back and crude jokes, with nary a thought of strategy.

Silus sat across from him, pressing his elbows into the formica table. He tore off a fistful of bread and shoved it into his face, scattering crumbs everywhere. "You're too quiet. What happened? Barkscorpion crawl up your arse?"

It irked Vulpes to see his brother talk with his mouth full. He also knew that Silus was well aware of this and taking the utmost delight in upsetting his fastidiousness and of course, that irritated him even more. The childish trick of a younger brother.

Vulpes caught himself before he delved any further into the remembrances of their childhood with the tribe. It was never good to consider his ignominious past, one that had been put to the torch many years ago.

"I'm merely thinking," he told Silus. "I realize it's an activity that's foreign to you, but you needn't be afraid."

"Thinking? Hah. Sulking, more like it. You're still pissed off about that slave bitch of yours."

Vulpes fixed him with a chilly stare. "Hardly."

Silus gave him a shit-eating grin and took a long draught of Nuka Cola to wash down the chunk of bread. He appeared to enjoy the fizzy degenerate drink almost as much as he did needling his elder brother.

"Serves you right, Fox. You should've left that collar on her throat. I never figured you'd be the type to get stupid over a piece of degenerate pussy."

"A lapse in judgement, yes. It's still preferable to your signature brand of unrelenting idiocy. I learn from my failures."

"Had a lot of those lately, what with letting your bedslave loose in the Mojave. Who knew one little slut could stir up so much trouble? How many of our patrols did she kill?"

"It doesn't matter. If she defeated them, they were weak."

"She took down six raiding parties, right?"

Vulpes' eyes narrowed. As far as he knew, the number had only been four. Still, combined with the loss of Nelson, it'd been more than enough to rouse Caesar and Lanius' wrath and make them question his future as the leader of the Frumentarii - or, as his sources had suggested, the advisability of keeping his head attached to his shoulders.

"No, not that many. Why do you tell me that number?"

"Because you've been saying it in your sleep every fucking night."

Vulpes was glad he was not of the temperament or the complexion to colour at every small embarrassment.

He was also relieved that he hadn't seen fit to tell Silus the ridiculous name his slave had given herself or that he had permitted her to keep it because it already sounded so impersonal, so dehumanizing, that any Roman name he might have endowed her with would have a step up. Six. It would seem that he had become attached to the word. He gritted his teeth together, displeased that the woman had claimed this small victory over his defences.

"That is doubtful," he said. "I am not prone to making utterances in my sleep. Were it so, I would not be trusted with Legion information."

"Only telling you what I heard, brother."

"Perhaps you misheard."

"Four or six, either way the bitch has stirred up a lot of trouble," Silus said. "You're bloody lucky she didn't take an eagle or Mars would be fucking you in the mouth right now."

"If the divine Mars tried such a thing, he'd shortly find himself a eunuch."

Caesar claimed to be the Son of Mars and gullible fools like Silus were prone to believe the propaganda. Foolish superstition. Vulpes would have liked to dispel the belief but it hadn't been practical. Instead, he'd devoted his time and resources to convincing the legionaries that the Mar's son had earned the god's ire and the only way to restore favour would be to the cast him down in favour of one more beloved by the gods.

In any case, it might be useful to retain the deception for future use. One day, he might like to become a demi-god. If so, he'd decided to claim his lineage from Mercury, master of cunning, deity of many faces. A fitting progenitor - much more impressive than an ignorant tribal who'd been too foolhardy to lay down his weapons and had breathed his last nailed to a cross, the dust of the highways blowing into his face.

Silus laughed nervously. "And I'm the blasphemer for calling out Caesar? You know, you're going to regret saying that, when it comes down to a battle..."

"Why? Mars is the god of war. Surely he can appreciate a threat."

His brother stared down at the tabletop, biting the insides of his cheeks. "Watch it, Vulpes. I may be with you in this, but if I'm going to die it's not going to happen for your fucking hubris. Now what I don't get is why the woman isn't dead yet. You're losing your touch."

Vulpes' elegant, long-fingered hands balled into fists under the ledge of the table, but he was careful to keep his face blank and his tone haughty and heedless.

"I've lost nothing. The Omertas were a liability to me. If I don't devote my full resources to disposing of a fugitive slave, it's because she's too disorganized to be anything more than a pest."

He lifted a hand towards the window of the safehouse, gesturing to the make-shift encampment outside.

"I have more important matters to consider than some profligate whore. My duty is the restoration of the Empire. When that is accomplished, there will be time for justice."

"If you say so," Silus stood, his chair screeching back against the wooden floor. "I'm starting to think you want to take her alive. Maybe wet your cock again, for old time's sake."

Vulpes fixed his gaze down on the dossier before him. "Such vices might motivate you, Silus, but I am not ruled by the same unworthiness."

Silus snickered. "Too bad. We might've taken turns with the bitch before we killed her. A little family bonding and all. For once, we would've had something in common."

Vulpes was unsure whether his brother was serious or if he was simply saying this to test his reaction. Silus was capable of such debauchery, certainly, but it was doubtful that the man was deluded enough to think Vulpes would share his property in such a revolting fashion.

"If you wish to have something in common with me, cultivate some manners. I don't participate in such debauchery."

"Maybe it's different when a man's got the old ball-and-chain to worry about, but slaves don't count, brother. Not unless you're soft on a degenerate."

"There are few I would tolerate speaking to me thus, Silus. Best you go forth now and get the men into ranks before I rethink my decision not to gut you and clothe one of the mongrels in your skin. I've always thought that would make for an amusing irony."

Silus smirked, seeming to enjoy the threat. With him, Vulpes knew such posturing was unnecessary, but he liked to keep up the pretence anyway. It was preferable to admitting that they shared certain goals or that his brother might even possessive an instinctive loyalty to his cause, despite their difference of character, discipline and inclination.

"As you say."

Vulpes watched Silus saunter out of the safehouse, the door banging shut behind him. He frowned, shuffling through his papers, annoyed that the man had proven more astute than he had believed.

Or perhaps he had become less skilful in veiling his thoughts from outside observers – too much time spent in the company of profligates, their tiresome emotions clouding his thoughts, bleeding into him until he didn't simply mimic their mannerisms but owned them? He was troubled by the notion that he might be babbling in his sleep. From now on, he would do well to take measures against such weakness – he could afford none, especially in his current position.

It was as Silus had surmised. He'd entertained a secret reluctance to execute Six although it hadn't stopped him from giving the Omertas the order. When it became clear that they'd failed to manage his simple request, he'd had an unusual experience: relief had flooded through his body like the gush of blood and he'd slumped back in his seat, strangely contented.

Listening to Benny whimper and beg before Six had snipped the worn-down thread of his pitiful life – well, that had simply been entertainment, a demonstration of her enthusiasm. It was always more stimulating to play his games against a worthy opponent, even if she was the degenerate slave whom he used to take on all fours, drawing whimpers and moans of a different kind from her pliant form.

Six was a chess piece that had always moved more unpredictably than he would have liked, but it pleased him to think that he might be able to direct her vengeful energies to his profit, at least for the time being. She and the profligate sniper were out for Legion blood and he had former allies in need of liquidation. The trick would be to lead the woman forward in the delusion that she was doing him harm. When she'd finally ploughed through enough bodies and at last appeared before his door, he would have a few surprises for her and be ready to offer her the welcome she so richly deserved.


	18. Unchain My Heart

Shoring up support on the Strip wasn't as easy as Six had hoped, especially with that creepy Yes Man always looking over her shoulder, the face on his glass screen wearing a queasy smile. She'd locked him in Benny's suite and told Swank, the new leader of the Chairmen, that House wanted the rooms kept just as they were until she could mount a full investigation into how the Omertas had managed to capture him. Swank wasn't known for his independent thinking or his keen powers of observation but she still would've preferred to keep Yes Man in a locked safe in Gomorrah, where she could be sure he wasn't playing advisor to her enemies.

Meanwhile, Cass had managed to persuade Francine Garret into signing on as Gomorrah's manager and the two of them appeared to be having a fine old time ordering folks around and draining the taps at the bar.

"Goddamn but it's nice to be in business again," Cass proclaimed, looking over the accounts while she double-fisted two different brands of beer.

Six didn't know how she did it, but the books always balanced, even when Cass herself was close to tipping over.

Arcade oversaw medical exams for the prostitutes with his usual scientific rigour, distributing antibiotics and doses of Fixer in equal measure. He seemed committed to making sure the employees weren't stuck on chems or rotting from the inside-out with disease, although he liked to complain almost as much as he liked to help people.

"I hope you're satisfied. You realize I'm never going to have sex again, right?"

Six rolled her eyes at this. "You just don't want to do it with the whores. You'll change your tune once we go back to Mojave Outpost and that cute major starts making eyes at you again."

"He was making eyes at me, wasn't he?" A shy smile started working its way across Arcade's face, his skin flushing pink, and it was easy to see what the officer had liked about him. "Aw, darn. Why is it I always wind up liking soldiers? In theory, I'm a pacifist, you know. Or at least I am until people start attacking me with power-fists."

Everyone seemed to like the privacy that came with their new quarters and generally, Six thought the change to Gomorrah had been a positive one. The hotel and casino looked a wee bit cleaner, the employees weren't always shooting up Med-X in the washrooms and business was booming. Whoever said that 'sex sells' wasn't kidding. If they kept this up, Six would be able to buy up the Gun Runners' full supply of weapon mods and still have cash to spare. That would make all the difference when it came time to pay Vulpes a visit.

Six particularly enjoyed spending her evenings in the courtyard, reading at a table under the palm trees, a margarita always within reach. It would have been like a picture postcard if Boone hadn't made a point of patrolling the perimeter of the second level, leaning over the rails every so often to pitch a cigarette butt onto the courtyard mosaic. Sometimes the butt would fall perilously close to where she was sitting and she had the notion that he was trying to get her attention. She tried not to look up.

As Six saw it, the patrol was just a passive-aggressive attempt to get her to admit he was right. Boone had made it clear from the start that he was against her evening ritual, claiming that any routine was bound to put her in danger. He had a point, of course, but she figured that, within the hotel, it would be okay to indulge in one luxurious weakness. She kept at least two weapons on her at all times and with Lily and Rex at the doors, Gomorrah's security presence had never been so intimidating.

She was on the sixth chapter of a Pre-War book about Hoover Dam when a man came wandering through the courtyard, wearing an NCR uniform. One of the gigolos made a pass at him, but he turned it down and Joana and Dazzle were busy with other clients. The only reason Six took any note of him was because he seemed lost and one of his boot laces had come undone.

The man paused in the center of the mosaic and stooped down to take care of the problem.

Six glanced over the top of her book just in time to see him pull out a submachine gun.

She ducked under the wrought-iron table, just before bullets sprayed the silk tents. Behind her, she heard shrieks and shouts, people scrambling for cover in various states of undress and inebriation.

The assassin spun towards her, gun blazing.

She fired her .45, emptying her clip in the vain hope that one of her bullets would hit before his gunfire hailed down on her.

The man fell forward, landing just a few feet from her position, the last of his ammo riddling the pavement.

When Six stood to examine the body, she saw that a bullet had taken off the back of his head. From the trajectory and the force of impact, it was obvious that it hadn't been any of hers.

She looked up at the second floor landing, expecting to see Boone's sniper rifle poking out between the railings, but there was no sign of him.

"You should've fucking listened to me."

She jumped at the sound of his voice and reeled around to face him.

"Do you really have to go sneaking up on people like that?"

"If you watched what you were doing, I wouldn't be down here."

"You're right. It was stupid. I just figured -"

Boone shook his head. "Doesn't matter. You alright?"

Six nodded. "Yeah. Thanks to you."

She raised her voice, scanning the courtyard. "Everyone else okay?"

Some of the guests had already started to emerge from cover. A few of them were sobbing and one unfortunate seemed to have pissed his pants, while others just wandered around, slack-jawed with disbelief.

There were a few injuries, mostly cuts and bruises, the result of people pushing and scurrying over each other to get away. Dazzle's leg had been grazed by a bullet and the wound needed some disinfectant and a bandage. She took it fairly well.

Six couldn't say the same for two of the gigolos, a catty pair who kept fanning their pretty-boy selves and clutching each other's arms, complaining about heart palpitations.

"Maybe we oughta go work at the Wrangler."

"The Wrangler? Oh, honey, haven't you heard? You go there, they'll make you do it with the electric toaster."

While she worked to restore some modicum of sanity, Six found the time to apologize to Boone about a half-dozen more times. The shows of remorse didn't do much to appease him.

"We need to talk. Now."

"Alright, sure. Just...can we do it somewhere private? It doesn't look good on the owner when the chief of security's publicly ripping her a new one."

"I'm not the chief of security."

"Really? I thought you'd like the title. Sounds authoritative."

"Yeah? So does king of the anthill."

They stepped into the Gomorrah's decrepit elevator and Six pushed the button to the suites level. The elevator shuddered as it climbed the floors, its overhead lights flickering. At first, she had found this ominous, but now she just saw it as another quirk of Gomorrah, like the sticky floors and the occasional mysterious white stain on the throw pillows.

Boone stared straight ahead, as if he could make the elevator go faster by sheer force of will.

"You need to get your priorities straight. We aren't here to run a casino."

"You seemed okay with it when I proposed the idea."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind," he said. "We need to take the fight to the Legion. Not just hole up in some whorehouse on the Strip and wait for trouble to come to us."

The elevator doors creaked open and Six stepped out, Boone trudging along behind her.

"Alright, I hear you. I just think that it's good to have a base of operations. We've been making a lot of money here. We could buy better gear, maybe even hire some mercs to help us out. It'd improve our chances, if we're going to take a run at the Fort."

She unlocked the door to her suite and walked in, setting her .45 down on her desk.

"Maybe."

Boone didn't sound too enthusiastic about the prospect of their survival. He stepped into the suite, pushing the door shut behind him.

"Now, is that the real issue here? Because, frankly, the timing of this makes me suspect it's something else."

"If I hadn't been keeping watch up there, you'd be dead. Could've screwed the whole mission."

"I'm sorry. I should've listened to you. I feel like shit, knowing I put those people at risk. I just...sometimes I just really want to sit under a palm tree and have a drink, you know? Just forget all this mess."

"You're going to need more than just a drink if you want to forget. All booze is going to do is muddle it up. Trust me."

Boone wandered over to the side of the desk, pulled a box of ammo from the top drawer and started reloading her gun. Usually he did this without the least effort, but this time, he was strangely clumsy, fumbling with the bullets.

Was he drunk? Boone had been making pretty steady use of the bar since they'd come to Gomorrah, but he'd always kept a handle on it. Besides, he was a damn good shot, but she doubted he could've gotten such a clean hit on that Omerta lackey if he were totally plastered. Not even Cass was totally on her game after gunning down three bottles of whiskey – although her confidence tended to go up as her inhibitions went down.

No, not drunk. Just antsy. Nervous. Funny to think she made a stone-cold son of a bitch like Boone nervous.

Six grasped his hand just as he reached for the next bullet. "You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do. You civilians don't take care of your guns."

"Alright, so I've been lazy about repairs. I'll get on it. I promise."

His hand twisted out of her grip, locking around hers instead.

"Good. We still going to the Fort? After this?"

"I'm going with you, Boone. That hasn't changed."

"Something has."

"You're right," she said. "Something has."

Six's enthusiasm for a kamikaze run had lost some of its urgency since she'd started to make some friends and find a place for herself in the Wasteland. It wasn't enough to take that cold dish of revenge off the table, but it made the idea of dying for it a lot less appetizing. She'd hoped that Boone might start feeling the same way, but he still seemed hung up on the idea of going down in a hail of bullets.

"You can back out of the Fort if you want to," Boone said. "I'm still going. I'll make sure I put a bullet through that Vulpes bastard's head."

"I'm with you. You don't need to get yourself killed doing my dirty work."

"Then how about not getting yourself killed in the meantime?" He paused, fumbling for words. "I need to you to stick around, Six. Nobody else is willing to do what needs to be done."

Six dropped his hand and turned away to conceal the frustration on her face, leaning her hip against the edge of the desk. It wasn't that he'd said anything terrible. In fact, by Boone's standards, that was pretty fucking expressive. It was just a let-down compared to all the ways she might've liked him to need her.

His hand clamped down on her shoulder and she felt his shadow looming over her. "What's wrong?"

When she spun back around, he was closer than she'd expected, so close that it startled her. For a big guy, he could be so quiet when he wanted to be.

"Nothing's wrong."

"Believe it or not, you're not the first woman I've ever met. I know how it is. 'Nothing's wrong' means I said something to piss you off."

Boone stared down at the floor, as if he was immensely fascinated by shag carpeting. "Look, with snipers, when you've got a partner, you got to call them out on shit sometimes. Just how it is."

"I'm not angry because you told me off. You have a point. I'm just disappointed, I guess."

"Disappointed. With what?"

"I guess I'd just gotten to hoping that I was more than an extra gun at your back."

"No. You're..." Boone frowned and rubbed his forehead as if he had the beginnings of a splitting headache. "It's more than that, alright? Damn it. What do you want out of me?"

"Not just an extra gun."

Six seized his face in both hands and kissed him. It was a gamble, like most things she'd done since her arrival on the Strip and all she could do was hope that this sudden run of luck would hold.

Boone hesitated and at first, she was certain that he'd pull away, that he'd tell her she'd crossed the line, but he didn't flinch and slowly, his mouth responded to hers, his arms winding around her, drawing her in so close that she could feel his chest rising and falling with every breath. His hands smoothed over her skin, the familiar smell of him - aftershave and whiskey and menthol cigarettes- wrapping around her like a blanket.

He retreated a step, looking her dead in the eyes. "This is a bad idea."

"You want to stop?"

He set his rifle down on the desk.

"No."

Boone scooped her up in his arms and Six wrapped her legs around him, kissing him as he carried her towards the canopied bed. As he laid her down, she shoved the gaudy beaded pillows aside and pulled him on top of her, kissing his lips, nipping at his neck, writhing under him, excited at the prospect of the warm bulge straining against the fly of his pants.

He peeled off her shirt and fumbled with the hook at the back of her bra, freeing her breasts. He leaned forward, tongue circling her nipples, kissing along the bare expanse of her stomach.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, carefully stripping off his shirt so as not to knock off his beret. It was funny to think that she'd once hated the thing. She liked the effect of it now, like a cherry atop a sundae.

Six slithered downwards, kissing his erection through the fabric of his pants. There was a sudden hitch in his breathing, his hips rolling beneath her.

She smiled, carefully unbuttoning his waistband and unzipping his fly. Tugging down his boxers, she set upon him, swirling her tongue around the tip of his swollen cock, gauging his girth before she took him into her mouth.

Boone moaned, his hips moving again and Six knew he was fighting the urge to push himself deeper.

Six enjoyed watching the unthinking pleasure work its way across his features, his eyes hooded with desire, his mouth tensing, twitching at the sides, as he struggled to control himself. At least six new expressions worked their way across that mysterious face of his before his hand came down against the back of her neck.

"Gotta switch it up or you're going to finish me off."

She rolled onto her back, kicking off her boots and shimmying her way out of her skirt and panties.

Boone sat up, rummaging through the dresser drawer for condoms.

"Shit."

That wasn't a good sign.

"Damn it. Lately, when I think protection, it's guns, not latex," Six said. "Cass is down the hall. She'll have some..."

She worked her way back up to her feet, swaying slightly, still a little giddy, still a bit dazed at the suddenness of it all and that she was still rolling sevens when her lucky streak should've ended days back.

"No." He barred her exit and she eased back down. He took her in his arms, as if wary that she might get any more funny ideas about walking away.

Boone worked his way down her body, hands stroking the plane of her stomach, sculpting over the curve of her hips, before inserting a finger inside her, tentative at first before corkscrewing in deeper. No doubt he noticed that she was already wet and ready to go, that she'd been yearning for this, watching in pent-up anguish as the dancers writhed in the dank lower rooms of Gomorrah.

He kissed the insides of her thighs, then his fingers gently spread her lips and his tongue lapped greedily against her clit.

There was a knot in Six's belly, an animal need that moved her limbs, drew gasps and moans from the back of her throat. She squirmed beneath him, almost frantic with pleasure.

"Oh, damn it. Damn it. I want you to fuck me."

"Don't tempt me," Boone said.

"I mean it. I want you inside me so fucking bad, it hurts."

"You sure about this? Because it...can be arranged."

"I'm sure. I want it. I want you."

He glanced down at his flagging erection, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and giving himself a few quick strokes to shore up the situation. She spread her legs wider and he thrust into her, as she kissed his stubborn jaw, stroked her hands over his back. Bucking her hips against him and arching her back, she worked to deepen each of his thrusts, anxious to enjoy a pleasure that she could claim as fully hers.

Six closed her eyes, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. Fuck, but she wanted him. She wanted him, even though his hands were rough, his heart was parched and stony, his eyes always fixed on some darkening horizon. Maybe she desired him all the more for that, because, then, oh, what a wonder it would be to drag him back to the land of the living.

Boone groaned, seeming to hit a sweet spot. She blinked up at him, smiling, almost drugged with desire, still surprised at how his face changed under her touch.

He gazed back at her and his lips moved, tilting slightly upward at the sides. It wasn't a smile, but it was as close as she'd ever seen him get.

Boone's body tensed over her, his strokes quickening as his orgasm drew near. He gazed at her, a feverish intensity behind his narrow grey eyes. "Close?"

"Close."

Six adjusted the angle of her hips, clenching her thighs around him and that sealed it. Her vocabulary was reduced to scattered curses and his name.

There was no bitterness to the pleasure thrumming through her, nothing begrudging about it. She drowned in it, flailing against inexorable pull of her release.

Boone gave a low growl, his muscles straining and then he collapsed into her, sighing, a gush of warmth filling her to brimming. He'd come inside her. It should've concerned her, but her body's satisfaction overruled any qualms her mind might have introduced. After all, she wasn't exactly a font of fertility. Vulpes had taken her this way hundreds of times, determined to put a son into her, and nothing had happened. Between the radiation, the fighting, the stress and the amount of bitterdrink she'd put back, they could probably get away with going bare-back, just this once. If there was a next time, they'd be smarter about things.

Six rubbed the back of his neck, the knotted cords of his shoulders, renewed affection for him washing over her. Even if this never went anywhere, she felt as if he had taken a burden away from her, one that she had carried for a long time but had never really looked to resolve, even as its weight bowed her back. If they bit the dust at the Fort, Six would die happy knowing that Vulpes hadn't been the last one to wring such ecstasies from her body.

Boone lay on top of her for a few moments longer, his eyes closed, his arms around her, before he heaved himself over onto the other side of the mattress.

She wanted him to say something, to provide a fitting conclusion to what had just occurred, but instead, he just stared up at the canopy, his hands folded over his chest.

"So?" Six said at last. "How are you doing?"

"Alright. Could use a smoke."

Not exactly a master of pillow talk, this Craig Boone. At least he wasn't about to give her a post-screw mind-fucking like Vulpes liked to do. In retrospect, sometimes she thought that'd been the Frumentarius' favourite part of it, that penetrating her thoughts had been more fun for him than the messy plebeian business of ramming his cock inside her.

Boone leaned down over the edge of the bed and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his discarded pants. "Want one? Know it's not really your thing, but I promise not to light the bed on fire."

Six smirked. Of course, he'd smoke after sex. He routinely poisoned his lungs after eating, drinking, shooting something, taking a piss...why not after fucking too?

She might not be a real doctor, not anymore, but Six still knew enough about those things to know they weren't healthy, not matter what some folks said about them 'opening up the lungs' and 'controlling the appetite'. Boone had probably smoked away a good ten years of his life already, thanks to those goddamn Lucky Strikes. Although, if she ever saw fit to mention that to him, he'd probably consider it an argument in their favour.

"I'm alright. You go ahead."

Boone lit the cigarette and lay back, blowing smoke rings up at the canopy.

"That was unexpected. Good though. Hope you...felt the same."

She smiled, watching a smoke ring dissipate. "No complaints here."

He put an arm around her, his hand rubbing her shoulder in a way that Six would have expected more from a war buddy than a lover. She wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Alright if I spend the night? Not up for taking the elevator again."

The request came as another surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Six had been preparing herself for his great escape, thinking that he'd collect his stuff and hightail it out of there as soon as he finished his cigarette.

"Sure. I'd like that."

In a sudden burst of hospitality and goodwill, she hopped off the bed and went to fetch an ashtray from the top of the bookshelf.

When Six came back, Boone was sitting with his back propped against the pillows, his mouth a thin line.

"He gave you those, didn't he?"

She sat on the bed and plunked the ashtray down in front of him. "What are you talking about?"

He took the ashtray, but didn't stub out the ash, just let the cigarette burn down, smoke trailing to the canopy. "That Legion bastard. He put those scars on your back."

Six chuckled, not because it was funny, but because she wanted something to break the intense focus of his eyes on her.

"Would you believe me if I told you it was a birthmark?"

"No."

"Vulpes was trying to write his initials. I'd done something he didn't like and he wanted to put me in my place. Funny, but it never seem to occur to him that he spelled out my name. 'VI'. That's 'Six' in Roman numerals. Guess the joke was on him."

The cigarette still smouldered in Boone's hand, the flame creeping perilously close to his fingertips. He didn't seem to notice.

"Tell me that's the worst of it."

"Those are the worst marks."

It wasn't a lie when Six phrased it that way. For the most part, Vulpes had been careful about her body. He didn't want to fuck something too broken or ugly. No, the scars he'd taken most pleasure in leaving were the ones beneath her skin, the ones that he didn't have look at when he grabbed her by the hair and bent her over a table.

Boone stubbed out the cigarette and set the ashtray down on the bedstand.

"Not sure that's what I was asking."

"You were asking if that was the worst thing he ever did. To me."

That little 'to me' at the end was important. Vulpes had committed far worse atrocities against others. By Legion standards, Six realized that what he'd done to her was small potatoes, nothing to write home about, even if it had shaken her to her core. Vulpes himself had probably viewed his treatment of her as a sort of merciful indulgence, a lapse into degenerate weakness rather than an example of Legion cruelty. If she killed him, there'd be a certain irony to that. He'd die at the hands of one of the few people he'd ever shown a kindness.

"Yeah. Guess I was," Boone said. "I just..."

"You just what?"

"Forget it. I shouldn't have asked. None of my damn business." He leaned forward, trying to take her into his arms. "Come here. Please."

She went limp in his embrace, wanting to be held but angry that he had encroached so far into her territory without yielding any of his own close-guarded secrets.

Boone stroked a hand over her scars as if he could smooth over the rippled flesh and her embarrassment along with it. Sighing, he lay back against the mattress, easing her body down with him.

Six curled into the warmth of his chest, trying to decide whether she wanted to relinquish her anger or boot the man square out of her bed.

He wanted to know her. Maybe she should let him. Perhaps, then, when it came time to ask him her questions, he wouldn't just shut down on her and say she didn't have the right to know.

"You want the honest answer?" she said.

"I don't know. Probably...not. Not something I like to think about, but I know it's there."

"The big purple nightkin in the room, right? All stealthed up but you can still hear him breathing."

"Funny. Yeah. Guess you could put it like that."

"Nothing that...happened to me, to my body, was as bad as what a place like that does to your mind. You live in the Fort, you're going get your head fucked three ways to Sunday."

Six paused, gulping down another breath, trying to get a handle on herself. "Stuff that might've turned your stomach before, you live through it enough times, it gets to be...normal. That's the worst. You see how easy it is to lose the person you thought you were. Does that make even a lick of sense?"

Boone nodded. "Makes more sense than you know."

She looked down at his hands and saw that they were clenched into fists, veins protruding from beneath the skin.

"Six?"

"Yes?"

"When you were going through that, did you ever -" Boone cut himself off in mid-sentence. "No."

Six glanced up at him."You wanted to say something. I like it better when you tell it to me straight."

"If somebody'd been there to...help you end it, you would've wanted it, right? I mean, if there was no way out."

It was a hard question, harder because she suspected he was looking for reassurance from her. It probably had something to do with Carla. It was always Carla. He carried her ghost with him just as surely as she wore Vulpes' mark on her skin.

"There were times. I thought about it Wondered if it'd be more...dignified." She wasn't going to explain the problems that a pregnancy would have presented or how repulsed she was by the idea of bringing up a child to serve the Legion. It was a dilemma with which Boone was already well-acquainted.

"But something kept you going," he said.

"I suppose. I don't know – could've been stubbornness, cowardice, something else. Maybe even a life that small and sad seemed better than nothing at all."

"You think so?"

From Boone's voice, Six could tell she'd inadvertently touched a tender place, although she didn't know what it was. Carla had died, but going on what she knew, it was odd to think that he'd blame himself for that. What could he have done? He'd been in Novac and his wife had been somewhere in the desert, being dragged at the end of a chain. Of course, there was rarely any logic to grief or to guilt and Boone seemed like the type who like to play the protector.

She tried to soften the blow. "Oh, I don't know. Might not be that. This business with the Platinum Chip seems pretty important. Maybe I have some grand purpose that I've yet to fulfil."

He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. "Yeah. Maybe you do."


	19. The Great Pretender

When Boone awoke, it took him a moment to adjust to the fact that there was another body beside him. Six was still asleep, sprawled on her stomach with the sheets twisted around her, arms hugging the pillow. Her face looked weary and almost unfamiliar in its stillness, but there was a sort of loveliness in it, for all that. This was a rare opportunity to examine it, not just to see the features, but to actually look and so Boone did, before his eyes strayed down the length of her back and over the curve of her hip, beginning to contemplate the possibilities of this position.

He realized that if he were to lie there and stare at her any longer, he was going to feel weird about it, so he'd better decide whether he was going to wake her up and try to instigate another round or get busy doing something else.

Boone opted for the latter because he wasn't sure Six would appreciate getting shaken awake for sex, even if she seemed to have enjoyed what'd happened the night before. Anyway, he was hungry and he could use a smoke.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and dressed himself in the previous night's clothes, pretty sure that no one would notice. Everything he wore looked the same.

He nipped out for a quick cigarette on the patio, then headed downstairs to the shared staff kitchen and started fixing up a tray of breakfast, setting out one plate for him and other for Six.

Boone liked cooking breakfast, listening to the brahmin bacon sizzling in the pan, pouring the orange juice, buttering up the toast – there was something comforting about it. It was one of the first domestic things he'd figured out how to do for Carla after she'd told him she was pregnant and probably the only one that he was any good at, even if his schedule meant their breakfasts had usually occurred at one in the afternoon.

Cass sauntered into the kitchen, sniffing the air and rubbing her skinny belly. She yawned, stretching her arms high over her head and letting them flop back to her sides.

"'Morning, Army. Well, ain't you just a peach. Making me breakfast and everything. Slap an apron on you an' you'd make a real nice little wifey."

He glowered at her. Aside from the Legion, there was no one in the Mojave who was so good at getting him pissed off. What was even more annoying was that Cass didn't seem to care. In fact, she seemed to like it.

"Not for you. Figured you'd drink your breakfast."

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a decanter of brandy. "Who says I can't do both? Tastes good going in and tastes good coming back up."

That was one thing about Cass – she always said exactly what was on her mind. Whether you wanted to hear it or not.

"Could you go talk someplace else?"

"Nope. This is where I'll be. Watchin' you cook breakfast like a somebody's house bitch and wonderin' who the other plate is for."

Cass flicked on the radio. Mojave Radio's channel fizzled with static, so she flipped the station over to Radio New Vegas.

She wrinkled her nose at the opening chords of 'Blue Moon.' "Eugh. Guess we're stuck with this shit. So who else you feeding?"

Boone didn't answer. He was seriously tempted to hit her with the spatula, the way he might have swatted some pesky fly buzzing around his ears.

"Okay then, guess I'll have to use my famous powers of deduction. So it's pretty obvious from the way you're walkin' that Boone just finishing doing some boning."

The sides of his mouth twitched and he made up an excuse to turn away, but not before Cass had noted his response.

"Aw, shit. Knew it. Am I good or what? Now let's see, let's see...would Boone bone a whore? Hmmm...I'm gonna say you ain't that rich. And even if you did, I'm hoping you ain't stupid enough to think you gotta make the unlucky guy, girl or ghoul breakfast after the dirty deed is done. So, no whore. This narrows down our options."

"Fuck off, Cassidy."

She kicked her boots up on the kitchen table, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. When she looked back at him with a glint in her eye, his stomach churned, almost positive that she'd guessed it.

She grinned. "Lily?"

"That's sick."

Cass shrugged, taking another swig of brandy. "I figured she'd be your type. You know, big, purple, inhumanly strong. Hmm, if not her, who else could it be?"

Boone shovelled bacon onto the plates. While he did it, he contemplated picking up the frying pan and shutting her up the old-fashioned way.

"Oh, I know," Cass pointed a finger at him. "It's Arcade, ain't it? I don't blame you either. He's got those nice, thick glasses. Makes you want to get 'em all steamed up."

He snorted. "Yeah. You got me. Me and Gannon all the way."

And, with that, Arcade promptly walked into the kitchen.

The researcher stopped in the doorway, adjusting his glasses with a know-it-all smirk. "Um, good morning, everyone."

Cass burst out laughing. "Arcade, I meant every word. You are one plum beautiful son-of-a-bitch. If you wasn't queer, I'd let you have all my babies."

"Um, yes. Frankly, I'm not sure if I should be flattered or terrified by that, so, if you don't mind, I'm just going to get these samples out of the fridge and edge slowly out of the room."

Arcade reached into the fridge, pulling out a handful of vials containing a yellow liquid that looked suspiciously like piss.

Boone stared at him, still hoping for an alternate explanation.

"Did you just take somebody's pee out of the fridge?" Cass inquired. "Is that whore pee?"

"If you're inquiring if this urine belongs to people who have sex for money, then yes," Arcade said. "It's 'whore pee'."

Boone was still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that Gannon had just taken people's bodily fluids out of the same place he kept his gecko steaks. "Don't care whose piss it is. Why the hell is it in our fridge?"

"I ran out of space in the refrigeration unit downstairs. Don't worry. I didn't pour any into the orange juice," Arcade replied. "I thought about it, but tricking you into drinking other people's body fluids seemed like a violation of the Hippocratic Oath."

Boone grabbed the pitcher of orange juice and poured out another glass. He handed it to Arcade.

"Drink it."

"It was just a joke. There's really no need to test my scientific ethics."

"Drink it."

"Shall I explain the concept of sarcasm to you again? I was being entirely facetious. It was a misguided attempt to be humorous."

"Nobody's laughing. Drink the damn juice."

Arcade chugged down the glass of orange juice and set it back on the counter. "There? Are you satisfied?"

"Yes. "

Boone was about to pick up the tray and get out of the kitchen before Cass started hassling him again, when the song ended and Mr. New Vegas began his latest news report.

"Welcome back, folks. Speaking of things that happen only once in a blue moon, just a few hours ago, I heard some good news from the eastern side of the Colorado. The Legate Lanius, second-in-command to Caesar and leader of the Legion's armies, has reportedly died, ending a brutal campaign of terror and destruction. Now if you're like me, I'll bet you're thinking, 'what could've taken that guy down? A deathclaw? Some kind of nuclear weapon?'

"Well, according to one source, it was a pinyon nut that felled the mighty Legate.

"Yes, there is a rumour going around that the Legate Lanius choked to death on a pinyon nut. I know, crazy, right?

"More credible sources have suggested that the Legate's death was the result of irradiated food smuggled into the camp by NCR spies posing as allied caravaners.

"Whatever the cause, I think it's safe to say that lots of my listeners across the Mojave will be smiling today and maybe even celebrating with some good ol' pinyon nuts.

"So, in honour of this latest bit of news, I'm going to spin one of my all-time favourites and I think it's one that you're going to like a whole lot too. "

The first notes of "I've Got the World on a String" drifted up through the radio, filling the stunned silence.

"Wow," Arcade said, at last. "If that's true, I wonder how that's going to affect the battle for the Dam. It certainly gives the NCR an advantage. For the time being, at least."

Cass shook her head, picking a piece of dried mud off the sole of her boot. "They move too fucking slow. By the time Oliver gets his head around it, the Legion will have stuck a new guy in the job. All they'll have done is piss the guys off. And if you stumble into a cazador nest, you better be ready to get stung."

Probably true what she said about Oliver. The woman might be a lush, but sometimes she was pretty damn astute.

Anyway, it was the best news Boone had heard in a while, although he would've liked to make the Legate's death a whole lot more painful than a fatal case of sniffles or choking to death on a fucking pinyon nut. Of course, there were more Legion bastards where he came from. Lots more. They'd be disorganized too, now that their commander was dead and it'd take time for them to appoint someone else to the role.

A good time to attack the Fort and take the fight to Caesar if ever he'd seen one. Six would want to know. Boone scooped up the breakfast tray and headed for the door.

"Hey Boone?"

Cass' voice intercepted him at the threshold.

He stopped, but didn't bother to turn around.

"What?"

"Say hi to Six for me, will ya?"

He didn't answer. Didn't want to give Cass the satisfaction of knowing she'd guessed right.


	20. Cold, Cold Heart

Six awoke shivering, the tender ache between her thighs a reminder of what'd passed the night before. Rubbing her cold feet together, she rolled over onto the side of the mattress Boone had once occupied. He was gone, leaving just rumpled sheets, the dent of his head in the pillow and a crushed cigarette butt in the ashtray. The realization hurt but, really, she was surprised he'd lingered as long as he did.

In the end, it was probably for the best that he'd gone. Waking up next to him would've made her sentimental and that wasn't something she could afford to indulge with a man like him. If they were going to keep scratching the mutual itch, it was probably better to compartmentalize, to keep any future liaisons from bleeding into daytime business. It'd be smart to keep things quiet among their circle of acquaintance as well – she didn't want to accused of playing favourites just because she was enjoying a little private R&R with the guy.

The door to the suite creaked open and she made a quick grab for the sheets, pulling the thin cotton over her nakedness.

"Hey."

It was Boone. His reappearance wasn't all that surprising, but it did make her heart jump a little faster. _Don't get all starry-eyed_, she scolded herself. She had to take it for what it was. Expectations were a one-way road to disappointment.

What was surprising was that he had brought breakfast and it looked delicious. When she caught a whiff of the brahmin bacon, her stomach gave a plaintive grumble. Six didn't realize the bars in Gomorrah made anything that hearty. They seemed to specialize in cocktails and chems, not anything that required an oven or might be even vaguely nutritious.

"Hey. Figured I'd grab something to eat." Boone set the tray down on the side-table. "Made a plate for you, if you want."

"Thanks. It looks fantastic. You didn't have to do this."

"I know." He eased down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting under his added weight. "Wasn't a problem."

Boone wasn't great with words, but she decided that the gesture was nice. Hopefully, it wasn't meant as an apology, some way of appeasing her before he tried to explain that he wasn't over Carla and that the previous night couldn't be anything more than a good memory. She was expecting that conversation was on its way, that it'd come sure as the sunrise or the Mojave heat, but it didn't mean she had to like it.

Six picked up a plate and plucked some silverware off the tray. She tried the bacon first. It tasted just as good as it smelled. Whoever had fried it up had obviously kept an eye on it, because the texture was perfect, crisp around the edges but chewy in the middle.

"What a way to wake up," she said. "Today's going to be a good day."

"Already is. Lanius is dead."

"What?" A piece of bacon fell off her fork and skidded across her plate. "How?"

Boone snorted. "Don't know which story to tell you. Liked the one where he choked to death on a pinyon nut. Probably not true though. Some say he might've been poisoned by NCR spies posing as allied caravaners."

"No way. Even if one of the caravaners went over to the NCR, there are tasters who try every bit of food that the commanders eat. If it's poison, it came from inside the camp and there's more than one person who knew about it."

"Inside the camp? You're saying it's Legion poisoning Legion?" He looked dubious. "Doesn't seem like their style."

Boone had a point there. Every time Six had seen the Legion take care of its own members, it'd been a brutal mauling with power-fists and machetes, not something underhanded like getting them to guzzle down cazador venom. Even with the tasters, she'd had the idea that they were more concerned about external threats and spoiled food than with the possibility that one of their own might resort to the feminine trick of poisons.

Of course, Vulpes had never been one to let quaint old notions of honour and fair play stand in the way of achieving his goals. He and his Frumentarii would've seen nothing objectionable in dispatching an enemy with a nice clean poison had the opportunity arisen.

Six remembered the warning he'd issued about Caesar's tumour.

"_In fact, you will pretend to know nothing of your profligate medicine. I don't care if you see an infant bleeding to death in the square. You will ignore it."_

At the time, she'd simply believed that Vulpes didn't trust her, that he didn't want her going anywhere near his precious Caesar with a scalpel. It was probably a good instinct. Still, it didn't explain why he'd never done anything to seek out a cure, especially when there was expertise readily available.

It occurred to her that Vulpes might not have wanted Caesar to get medical help. If his leader's behaviour was becoming erratic, if he seemed weak and unable to live up to the standards he'd once set, Vulpes might have decided that it was time for new blood. That would mean shedding some old blood.

Of course, if Caesar died, Lanius would step into power and Vulpes would lose his command and likely, his life. He must have known that if he wanted to survive Caesar's death, he'd have to kill Lanius first.

After that, Lucius would be less of a problem . By Six's estimation, he was technically third in the succession, but he was getting on in years, his beard grizzled with grey. Besides, from what Six had observed, Lucius had always been a follower at heart, a bit of plodder compared to the Fox and the Monster of the East. He and Vulpes had always seemed somewhat wary of each other beneath the displays of cordiality, but if Caesar and Lanius were out of the picture, it wasn't hard to imagine whose personality and tactics would dominate.

She recalled how smug Vulpes had sounded after learning the Omertas were dead.

"_I planned for this possibility. If you must know, you did me a favour."_

Sorting through Nero's papers, she'd noted that he seemed more impressed with Lanius and Caesar than Vulpes. The Omertas didn't trust the Fox even if he was their main point of contact with the Legion. If Vulpes were to take over the army, she doubted Nero would have continued to offer his allegiance.

Vulpes was willing to risk sending the Omertas after her because they were a disposable resource, one that might later be turned against him in a possible civil war with Lanius, Lucius or some other ambitious Legion commander. If they killed her, he won. If she killed them, he still won and had plausible deniability if any Legion men confronted him on the loss of an ally.

Six's fork clinked against the edge of her plate.

"I think Vulpes killed Lanius. I think he's planning on taking command of the Legion himself."

She explained her line of reasoning to Boone as best she could. He seemed more annoyed that she hadn't told him about Caesar's brain tumour than the fact that Vulpes might be taking over the whole damn operation.

"You should've said something."

"I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd care. I sort of figured it might take some of the fun out of going to kill him."

"Hmh. That's no excuse. You don't get to keep shit like that from me."

"You're right. I should've said something." She took a strip of bacon off her plate and put it on his. "There. Restitution."

He didn't look too impressed with her joke. "So are we going to the Fort? I think it's a good time."

Six wasn't so sure. If she was correct in her suspicions, going to the Fort and killing Caesar might be playing right into Vulpes' hands.

"Look, if we do that, even if we take down Caesar, we'll be handing the Legion over to Vulpes. We'd be giving him exactly what he wants."

"Yeah, but sometimes getting what you want ends up biting you in the ass," Boone said. "Vulpes doesn't sound too popular. We kill Caesar, get rid of that Lucius fucker and see what happens. Maybe Vulpes will get a cross instead of a crown."

It wasn't a bad plan, but the idea of helping Vulpes to power still made her feel sick to her stomach.

"And if he gets a crown? That puts him further out of my reach. He'll have all of the Legion's resources at his disposal and he won't stop coming until we're both dead."

"If we're lucky, we could catch him, Caesar and Lucius at the Fort all at the same time. They got to get together to talk, right?"

If they caught the three of them before they organized a solid plan of succession, it would be an ideal scenario. All the major leaders of the Legion would be dead. The centurions would likely wait for orders from Phoenix before they'd dare make a move and that would set them out as easy prey for the NCR.

Six nodded, pushing down her doubts. "You're right. It's worth the risks. We'll arm up and go."

"Today?"

"Today."

Boone brushed a strand of hair back from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek. "It's going to be a good day, Six."

A good day. Maybe one of her last.

Nobody else liked the idea when she introduced it at a group meeting later that morning.

"You can't be serious," Veronica said. "Look, when I said I wanted to see new things, I mostly meant casinos. Luxury restaurants. Places where people don't have an unhealthy obsession with power-armour. The Fort wasn't really on my list of destinations."

"I'm not forcing anyone to come. This isn't what you signed up for. I know that."

Six could see the struggle playing out over Veronica's face. She knew that the scribe was feeling guilty for not wanting to take on this fight, one that would likely be the death of them all.

When she replied, her voice was soft and ashamed, barely more than a whisper. "Please don't get killed out there. Okay?"

Six nodded. "We'll try to avoid it. Dying wasn't too much fun the first time around. I'm not looking to repeat it. "

"Dang it all, Six, I'm not letting you and Army bite the dust across the river," Cass piped up. "If you want to kill Legion so bad, why don't you wait for the big showdown? You'll have plenty of back-up."

"And they'll be prepared. They'll have their succession plan figured out by then. If we go now, we can catch them off guard. If we're really lucky, we might start a power struggle in Arizona and then the leather-skirts are in for some real good times."

"Look, I ain't a coward. You helped me take care of McLaugherty and the Van Grafs. I owe you for that. You want me to cross the river, I'll cross the fucking river."

There was an obligation there and Six might've made use of it, but having let Veronica turn her down, it preyed on her conscience to press any of the others into reluctant service in what Boone had already deemed a suicide mission.

"Cass, I need you here. Take care of Gomorrah. If any more Omertas show up, I'll want you and Veronica around giving 'em what-for."

"Damn straight, gal. Better believe it," Cass tipped back her hat, putting on a shaky grin. "The two of you better come on back now. If you eat lead, I'm gonna bring y'all back to life and drop you myself."

When Six swivelled around to give her regards to Arcade, his expression was solemn and his mouth was a hard, unyielding line.

"This is a bad idea," he said. "This... You know what? I'm sorry, I'm not even going to sugar-coat it. Six, you're not well. You have amnesia and you've suffered a trauma or ten. You're just not yourself right now, probably haven't been yourself for a long time, but you can get help. You know, Julie sent me for the specific purpose of preventing you from doing stuff like this. I'm supposed to be the voice of reason here."

He turned to face down Boone. "You, my friend, are clinically depressed, you've just finished coming off an addiction to Buff-out and you exhibit all the classic symptoms of PTSD. So, no, I'm not going to endorse the two of you running off on some crazy suicide mission against an encampment full of bloodthirsty psychopaths in skirts."

Boone frowned at this assessment of his mental health, but didn't offer any debate on the subject.

"Arcade, it's decided," Six said. "I understand your concern, but you and the Followers aren't responsible for me anymore."

"We could find an alternative to this. You have options. You know, you could go back to Freeside. We could get you back to healing people. You know, instead shooting them in the face."

"Maybe later. Once I've shot one particular person in one very specific face. But, right now, this is something I have to do or I'll never have any peace. Do you understand?"

Arcade took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Six couldn't tell whether he was just bone-tired or if he was trying to get a rein on his frustration. From the tautness of his mouth and the way he kept blinking, it occurred to her that he might be on the cusp of tears.

"I...I'll try to. Because I can't stop you. It's always been your choice. I just think you'd be better off getting some help."

She patted him on the shoulder, unsure whether this would console him or just make it harder for him to keep a stiff upper-lip.

"I had great help. You've done all you could. But you can't save everyone. Especially if they don't want to be saved."

He sniffled and dabbed at the corners of his eyes, before setting his glasses back on his nose. "Well, then..._ Ad augusta per angusta._"

Lily didn't seem to understand what was going on. She kept twining her clumsy purple hands together and re-adjusting the absurd little cap perched atop her large purple head.

"Leo says you're going to kill someone."

"I am," Six said. "A very bad man."

"Leo is very bad. You shouldn't go making bad people angry, Jimmy. Why don't you stay with Grandma and Grandma will bake cookies for her little munchkin."

It was a tempting offer. Six hugged the old Nightkin, barely managing to get her arms around the mutant's waist.

"Take care, Lily."

Boone was most broken-up about saying goodbye to Rex. He'd wanted to take the dog with them, but Six didn't think it was a good idea to place the King's pet in that such danger and eventually, Boone had agreed.

He crouched down and rubbed the mongrel's head, feeding him one of the treats he'd taken to carrying in his pack. "Good dog. Good Rex."

His gaze scanned the room, eventually settling on Arcade.

"You take care of him while we're gone."

"I...I'm not really good with animals. Except in, um, lab situations. I'm actually quite -"

Boone cut him off with an impatient sigh. The mere mention of scientific testing seemed to be enough to put him off letting Arcade dog-sit.

"Fine. Just make sure he gets back to the King if we don't make it."

He turned to Lily. "This is Jimmy's dog. Jimmy needs you to take care of him while he's gone."

"Jimmy got a puppy? Jimmy, sweetie, I don't think your mommy and daddy would approve of pets in the Vault. They make dirty messes in the corners..."

Six glanced at Boone, feeling a little annoyed at his gambit. It was one thing not to contradict the Nightkin's delusions. It was quite another to use them to trick her into taking care of your pets.

"Please?" she said to Lily. "Can I please have the puppy?"

"Oh, alright. Grandma will take care of the puppy until you come back." Her voice dropped an octave, crackling with scarcely controlled fury. "Leo will give him lots of bones to chew on."

Six and Boone left Gomorrah, passing through the shabby lobby and under the rippling lights of the marquee. They'd made it halfway down the Strip when Six heard barking and the sound of robotic legs clicking together.

She saw Boone reel around and Rex leaped at him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The sniper gave a loud cough, one that Six thought sounded distinctly like an attempt to keep down a surprised laugh.

It was hard to resist taking the dog. Nevertheless, the King had entrusted Rex to her. She knew that if the dog were to die, it would be a sad day in Freeside.

"Go home, Rex." Six jabbed a finger in the direction of the Gomorrah, struggling to keep a straight face. "Go. Now."

Rex tilted his head up at her, giving a low whimper.

Boone stooped down, scratching behind Rex's ears.

"Think he wants to come along. He likes killing Legion."

Six sighed. "What he likes is you scratching his ears and feeding him jerky."

Boone took another treat out of his pack and fed it to the mutt. "Sure does."

And with that, the robotic dog wound up coming along for the ride, although Six didn't even want to consider what the King would say if he found out they'd taken his beloved "hound-dog" on an all-out assault on the Fort.


	21. Crazy

The sun was setting over Cottonwood Cove, casting a hazy, golden light on the rooftops of the cabins. Despite the place's name, there were no cottonwoods there, no trees of any kind, unless you counted crosses planted in the dirt. Six had discovered one of those along the path, a battered skeleton still strapped to the bleached wood.

Boone said he knew a place they could make camp for the night. He brought to Six to the same sniper's nest that she and Vulpes had found on their way to Novac.

"I've been here before."

"With that Legion son-of-a-bitch?"

Boone rarely called Vulpes by name, preferring vague profanities that could've described almost any man under Caesar's command. Bastards and sons-of-bitches weren't exactly in short supply in the Legion, but Six always knew to whom he was referring.

"That's right. Briefly. Before Novac."

Six stared at the shooting blind, what she'd taken for a tumble-down tent the first time she'd come here. Travelling with Boone had taught her a thing or two besides how to fill the hopeless silences.

The blind was a dusty bit of canvas held up with a stick and a few metal stakes. Back when she'd come here with Vulpes, the structure had surprised him and he'd poked it at in an inquisitive fashion in-between supervising her wardrobe change and lecturing her on his expectations for their excursions into the Wasteland. She'd expected him to tear it down, but apparently he'd considered that kind of work too far below his pay-grade.

Beyond that, Six hadn't thought too much about the blind or the person who'd set it up. Maybe she should have.

She crouched down, picking up a glass jar full of rainwater and soggy cigarette butts. She gave it a shake, scummy water sloshing up against the sides of the jar. That sealed the deal.

She looked at Boone. "You set this up. When you were looking for Carla."

"Yeah."

He didn't offer any more information and from the way he clenched his jaw, Six could see it wasn't a good time to ask questions - not unless she was looking to conduct a conversation based on two-word replies and stony silences.

The place was too close to the Legion camp for a fire so they huddled under a makeshift tent and ate Cram out of the can, a meal that not even hunger could make appetizing.

As bad as the gelatinous ham tasted, as unpalatable as canned meat was on principle, Boone seemed to like it. Maybe it was an army thing. Six imagined the NCR had fed that man a lot of bad meals in his day, to the point where his taste buds might've shrivelled, fallen off and run for the hills.

Or heck, maybe he was just glad to shovel food in his mouth, since it absolved him from having to talk or make eye contact. Boone wasn't good at those things under normal circumstances, but in the hours since they'd come within sight of Cottonwood, he'd had even less use for social graces.

It hurt Six's feelings a little, even though she knew taking offense at Boone's moodiness was like getting angry at the sun for burning her hide. He was just doing what he always did and if she'd thought one roll in the sheets would be enough to cure the man of secretiveness and a surly disposition, she'd been deluding herself, big-time. She settled in and decided to enjoy the silence.

The silence bored her after a few minutes so she fed Rex the rest of the Cram and petted him and told him how good and how smart he was until his tail just about fell off from wagging. After that, she lounged out on a long, flat rock, musing aloud about the shapes of the various clouds and what animals they looked like, hoping to get a rise out of Boone.

"That one looks like a baby Deathclaw."

No answer.

"That one looks like the Lucky 38."

Nothing, not even the sound of irradiated crickets.

"That one looks like a Legion raiding party."

That got Boone's attention, but didn't garner a response, not even a dirty look or a request to kindly shut the hell up and let him mope in peace.

He was staring down at Cottonwood, a sight much less pleasant than the evening sky. In the distance, Six could see cabins illuminated by lantern light. In the central area of the camp, there was a fenced enclosure encircled by barbed wire. She couldn't discern any captives inside, but it would be easy for huddled bodies in brown shifts to meld into the deepening shadows.

Boone volunteered to take first watch and he let Six sleep longer than he should have, waking her just before first light.

"You didn't sleep," she said, almost accusingly. It was just like him not to get any rest the night before a big fight.

"I will. Only need a couple hours."

While Boone caught some shut-eye, Six pulled on the cuirass of her leather armour and covered it with her old slave's shift. She secured a piece of scrap metal to her throat using a piece of rope. It didn't make for a very convincing slave collar, but from a distance, it might do the trick. Using some twine and a coarse sack, she made herself a decent-looking bundle with the contents of her pack.

With that done, Six smudged dirt on her face and mussed her hair, coating the frazzled strands in a light layer of dust. If she kept her head down, she hoped any legionaries she encountered might mistake her for one of the older slave women past her child-bearing years. These women were generally relegated to the worst and most tedious chores around the Fort, cleaning the latrines, hauling scrap or collecting trash. It was horrible treatment, no doubt meant to demonstrate the Legion's opinion of a female's usefulness, but it did provide a few unintentional benefits. Slaves with these duties were virtually ignored by legionaries and ranged the encampments with minimal supervision or interference.

When Boone awoke, he sat up and blinked at her, taking a moment to recognize her features beneath the dirt and the shabby clothes. He looked at her incredulously, almost angrily, as if she'd made a joke at his expense.

"Hm. That's some get-up. "

"It's not just a fashion statement," Six said. "I figured I'd go down there and flush out some legionaries. It's the best way to lure them into your sights."

"Not sure that's a good plan."

"Why not? What are they going to expect from a weak little slave like me? Not much – at least until we break out the firepower."

"Not very safe for you, I mean."

"We're not here to be safe. We're here to get this done."

"Just be careful." Boone put on his sunglasses – which was a relief, because the way he was staring made her damnably uncomfortable, more bare and exposed than if she'd stripped off all her clothes and done the Watusi. "Always had a hard time picturing you - like one of them."

By 'them', he meant a slave, but the word seemed to stick in his mouth. He probably didn't want to insult her.

"I am one of them. And today, this slave is going to have herself a little taste of revenge. What do you say to that?"

He snatched up his rifle and rose to his feet. "I say, let's do it."

Once he'd set himself up in the sniper's nest and Six had assured herself that everything was in readiness, she crept down the cliffs and into the small encampment below.

There were five or six legionaries clustered around the veranda of the nearest bunkhouse. Six trudged past them, cringing, her back bowed, her face turned towards the ground. They paid her no mind.

When she came within ten yards of the cabin in front of the sniper's nest, she crouched down, easing the load off her shoulders. Reaching a hand into the bundle, she pulled out Benny's gold lighter and a bottle of whiskey she'd stuffed with a piece of cloth. She lit the cloth and tossed the bottle through the open shutters of a first floor window.

The legionaries heard the crash and the shrill of glass, even if they didn't realize she'd just thrown a Molotov cocktail, and some of them began to holler, sprinting towards her.

Pulling the 9mm pistol from her bundle, she ducked behind an outcropping of rocks and waited for them.

It was beautiful, seeing the first legionary hit the dust, knees buckling under dead weight, his head reduced to a bloody pulp. A second later, the cabin lit up like a tinderbox, flames shooting from the windows and dancing along the roof. The remaining legionaries didn't know where to look.

Six bolted out of cover, shooting another one down, and that's when she saw Aurelius, the camp's centurion, picking his way around the rocks. He fired his submachine gun at her and she had to shield herself in a crevice to avoid the spray of bullets.

Among the Legion officers she'd encountered during her slave days, Six had nurtured a particular dislike for Aurelius. Anyone whose presence made Vulpes visibly uncomfortable was in a very special league of creepy. When Aurelius visited the Fort, he spent an unseemly amount of time skulking around the hillside where the Legion boys trained, lingering there until the drill instructors sent their pupils away. It was rumoured that he kept bags of toys and candy in his quarters, sweet things with a distinctly sour association.

Six fired a few more shots at the centurion, working her way around the rock so that he wasn't attacking her flank. She wished she'd thought to bring a couple of grenades. They would have done a lovely job of clearing away the legionaries approaching from two o'clock.

Rex sprang at one of the soldiers, sinking his teeth into the man's leg and shaking him to the ground. The other legionary kept charging, his machete held aloft, ready to hack off her head.

Six had almost exhausted her clip. If she was lucky, she might have two more bullets in the chamber before she'd have to reload. Reloading would take time – an all-too-precious commodity with Aurelius breathing down her neck.

Aiming for the legionary's chest, she wound up catching him in the shoulder. The machete whirled out of his hand, tumbling to the dirt.

Six made a grab for it and the legionary lunged after her. He grabbed her thighs and tackled her with enough force to knock the air out of her lungs.

She gasped, stretching her arm forward. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the machete. She slashed at him blindly and he shrieked, his hands moving staunch his wound.

Six kicked at the wounded man, wriggling out of his grasp, and scrambled up the cliff face. Aurelius' gunfire peppered the ground behind her. He wasn't much of a shot, but with an SMG, accuracy was less of a virtue than thoroughness, persistence and a surplus of ammunition.

Below her, the blazing cabin drew more legionaries, all struggling to douse the flames before they consumed the entire camp. They were easy pickings for Boone's rifle.

Aurelius was determined, Six would give him that. He'd started wending his way up the cliff in pursuit of her, moving quickly and taking cover to keep Boone from getting a clear shot at him. He was as ugly as lakelurk, too, with that long shovel of a nose and those cold, fishy eyes. He sprayed the rocks with bullets and Six had to dive behind a low ridge to avoid the gunfire, skinning her knees on the cool stone.

She lay on her belly and reloaded her gun, waiting for Aurelius to appear above the edge of the ridge. He didn't come. It took her a little while to realize that the centurion was going to wait on one side and send his rawest recruits around the other side to flush her out. Shit. That was just Legion Tactics, 101.

Six scanned the ridge, desperate to find some way to unsettle his position. What she found was a loose boulder, too heavy to lift, but easy enough to push. She gave it a hard shove and tumbled down the cliff in Aurelius' direction.

Aurelius stumbled and his gun went off, firing wildly against the cliff face. The centurion gave a roar of pain as if he'd been hit by the ricochet, but maybe that was wishful thinking. More likely, she'd just riled him up.

A young legionary came rushing at Six, tossing a throwing spear. Still on her stomach, she rolled to the side, barely managing to evade the falling point.

Six shot out the recruit's knee and he tripped, tumbling forward. She shot again, hitting him in the side of the neck.

Another recruit appeared, but he made the mistake of edging too far from the rocks, putting himself in Boone's sights. The sniper made quick work of him, putting a bullet through the left side of his chest.

Six wormed her way over to the bodies, digging her elbows into the ground for traction. Checking one of the recruit's pockets, she found a canteen of purified water. She poured half of the canteen's contents down her parched throat and tipped the rest over her head, shaking beads of water from her tangled hair.

Sneaking a glance over the edge of the ridge, she saw Aurelius sprinting towards her, blood trickling from his thigh. His machine-gun hammered away in rapid-fire bursts, sweeping the cliff face. He charged over the ridge, panting with rage and adrenalin – and ran himself right onto the point of a Legion spear.

Six didn't know how to throw the damn things, but it'd been pretty easy to point and jab.

Aurelius managed to fire his gun, but being impaled on a spear, his aim was even poorer than usual. The bullets riddled the ground, sending a cloud of dust swirling up around them.

Six twisted the spear in a little deeper and the centurion's hands went limp. She hoped that she'd hit something vital – but not something too vital. She still wanted him to hear her. To have a little time to reflect on the suffering he'd caused before he closed his eyes and went numb to the world.

"I'm glad you're dying, Aurelius of Phoenix, you perverted piece of shit. I know what you are. What your 'hobbies' were. When you're dead, I'll going to free your slaves. We'll feed your corpse to the rats."

Aurelius tried to speak but when his mouth opened, blood bubbled out.

Six dropped the spear and shoved him to the ground, kicking him a few more times for good measure. At last, Aurelius' eyes glazed over and he stopped panting blood into the dirt.

Six and Boone freed as many slaves as they could – but not as many as she would've liked. Some of them were so brainwashed that they'd run into the bunkers and hidden themselves, barring the doors, certain that the profligates would kill them. Two tried to flee the camp before Six could stop them to disarm their collars. Six shouted after them, but that only made them run faster. They scurried away, hand-in-hand, making it maybe a hundred yards before the collars exploded, their bodies tumbling into a heap in the dirt.

"Goddamn it." Six swiped tears out of her eyes with her grimy knuckles. "Why didn't they listen?"

Boone took off his sunglasses and wiped them off on the bottom of his shirt. "Can't save everyone. Especially not the ones who don't want to be saved."

She gave a bitter chuckle, hearing an ironic echo of her own words to Arcade. "I just said that to make Gannon feel better. You know, so he doesn't run off to do penance in some leper colony."

"I don't know. Sounded smart to me."

"And so you waited for a chance to parrot it back to me because you think I've got the same problem Arcade does."

"Yeah. That about sums it up."

"You're wrong."

"If you say so."

Six searched the camp for weapons and money, while Boone hung around the courtyard, with Rex sniffing around his feet. She wasn't sure what the hell the guy was doing out there. His standard routine of enigmatic silence and squinting into the middle distance was starting to work on her last nerve. When she'd asked him to help out with the looting, he'd just muttered about "unfinished business" he needed to take care of first and left her to read in-between the lines.

After Six was done picking through salvage, she scrubbed the dirt from her face and changed out of the drab slave garb, relieved to slip on her familiar merc's clothes. When she returned outside, she found Rex chewing contently on the severed hand of a legionary and giving soft growls under his breath.

Boone ignored the mutt, staring at two rocks on the ground, his rifle holstered and his hands jammed in his pockets.

The rocks hadn't been there when she'd left. One was a large slab of pink-veined quartz and the other was small and gray, slightly rounded. Boone had written on the stones in chalk. Usually, his writing was small, crabbed and slanted, the kind of penmanship one would've expected on a prescription pad, but Six could see that he'd taken pains with this. The letters were large and carefully spaced. His hand must have wobbled so he'd thickened the lines, drawing over his mistakes.

The first rock read 'Carla'. The second read 'Baby'.

Six stopped in her tracks, her throat tightening. She didn't know what to say or if words would even be welcome. She didn't even know if she was welcome at this belated funeral or if she was just an unpleasant reminder that his life hadn't stopped with that of Carla and their unborn child.

Boone didn't look at her when he spoke.

"This is where it happened. Never had a chance to bury her. Guess this is the next best thing."

She nodded, unsure how to answer him. His voice was huskier than usual and he kept his head bowed, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

"When I came here, they were selling her, Six. Her and..." He swallowed, nodding at the small grey stone. "...Couldn't let them do that. You know what they do. To women. To kids."

She remembered the question he'd asked her during their last night at Gomorrah.

"_If somebody'd been there to...help you end it, you would've wanted it, right? I mean, if there was no way out."_

If he'd done what she thought he'd done, it wasn't just the Legion he wanted dead. They weren't the only ones he could blame.

"Yes," she said. "I've seen what they do."

Was enslavement worse than death? For some, maybe. Carla had been a stunning woman, a knockout – everyone had said so, even when they'd been less impressed with her other qualities. In a Legion camp, that could be a blessing or an unbearable curse. It all depended on who lay down the denarius to buy that pretty face and whether they wanted to possess that beauty or ravage it. Loath as Six was to admit it, there had been worse masters than Vulpes. Some of them took a particular pleasure in ripping the petals from flowers.

"I couldn't save her," Boone said. "It was an auction. A couple hundred of them there. Might've shot a few but then they would've killed me and taken her away to their damn Fort all the same."

Six had never seen an auction. She'd be sent straight to the Fort with the slaves who'd already been sold or assigned to duties at the Fort. When slaves arrived from Cottonwood Cove, they'd come with cracked lips, skin red and peeling from afternoons spent standing in the sun, their hands cut up from clawing against the wire of slave pens. Apparently, when auctions came around, the place was a zoo and Legion soldiers weren't the only bidders. Sometimes they sold to tribesmen and allies, traders who'd come from Arizona.

"It's okay. You don't have to explain it to me."

Boone stared down at the stones on the ground. His voice was just a rasp, every word like a razor in his mouth.

"Yeah, I do. I saw her there and I knew there was no way out. I took the shot. I did that. Never even got the chance to tell her why. But you...you should know."

Six nodded again. She wanted to put a hand on his shoulder – hell, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him as long as he needed holding - but she knew he'd hate that. She was an intruder here and it'd be wrong to place herself between him and his ghosts.

Hell, she would've liked curse Jeannie May and the Legion, to tell Boone that he'd made the right choice and absolve him of all the guilt he carried around like rocks in his stomach. But she couldn't do that either. She wouldn't. In the end, she doubted he'd even want that. He knew better.

Had it been the right thing to do? Six wasn't sure, even if she trusted his good intentions.

If a person hadn't been strapped to a cross for twelve hours under the blistering sun, her limbs broken, her brain only there to process suffering, maybe it was too early for a bullet. After all, she had lived when every part of her had screamed for death and now she stood in Cottonwood Cove, surrounded by the corpses of Legion slavers.

Of course, Six didn't know Carla as Boone had. She'd never even met the woman and Boone wasn't one to regale her with stories, romantic or otherwise. If she had to venture a guess, she'd imagine that the woman would've been miserable in the Legion. The Fort made Novac's dingy little motel look like a luxury resort. Yet, perhaps Carla would've found some part of herself in that adversity that Boone had never glimpsed, some part that even she'd never known was there. Perhaps she'd have endured and eked out a life for herself and their child.

Or not. It was just as likely that Carla would have been sold to some sadistic bastard or a whole gang of them, and she'd have died a hundred slow deaths before they'd let her have the last one - the Legion's idea of a present.

It was a nightmarish choice. In the end, Six didn't know what she'd have done in his place, just as she imagined Boone had a hard time comprehending what had motivated her to stay alive during those long months in the Fort. Maybe a part of him resented her for living at all, because her survival would always make him question whether he'd done the right thing.

Knowing the truth, Six was surprised Boone had agreed to work with her. It was even stranger that they'd become friends. Or, well, whatever they were – that was confusing, but she wasn't sure she wanted to untangle it. Not yet. In this case, maybe she wanted to keep her illusions.

"Do you want some time alone?" Six asked. "I can stay here or I can go wait at the camp. Whatever you think is best."

"Go ahead. I'll see you in a bit."

She glanced down at his sidearm, wondering if she should try to confiscate it. Surely he wouldn't try anything stupid. At least not before they'd taken their run at the Fort.

Boone seemed to pick up on her suspicions. He sounded almost offended at the implication. "If I was going to take that route, I'd have done it a while back. You don't have to worry."

"Thank you," she said. "I...care about you. I know that doesn't make things better. Maybe it makes them worse. Still, I figured...you should know."

He nodded. "I know."

Boone crouched down by the stones, his hand gently tracing over the smaller one.

As Six walked away, she heard him murmur one more thing, his voice almost lost in the rising wind and the soft sift of the dust.

"Thanks."


	22. Crimson and Clover

Boone spent more time down there than he'd intended and by the time he returned to camp, Six was asleep and Rex drowsing at her feet, still licking his chops from supper.

Six's bedroll wasn't zipped all the way and so he bent down and adjusted it. At higher altitudes, the nights could get cold, especially without the benefit of a fire. He didn't like to see her shivering in her sleep.

It would've been smart to stay up and keep guard, but Boone was dead tired and they hadn't had time to work out a proper watch.

Instead, he pulled his bed roll forward, a few feet ahead of her sleeping form. If anyone was going to come around in the six hours 'til daylight, he figured they'd have to deal with him first. He'd be damned sure either to kill them or make some noise in dying.

The next morning, Boone spent breakfast trying to work out what he wanted to say to Six before they headed out to the Fort. It had something to do with thanking her – he just hadn't figured out for what – and it had something to do with saying goodbye, though part of him wasn't ready to let go. There was something else too, something that always seemed to get stuck at the back of his throat, but he wasn't even going to try getting that sorted out.

Six finished eating her Fancy Lad cake, brushing the crumbs off her lap. She still had a smudge of dust on her cheek from the previous day. It took every fibre of discipline in his being not to grab her face and rub it away.

"Boone?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to ask you to do something and you're not going to like it."

This wasn't the most promising introduction.

"Go ahead. Shoot."

"When we go across the river, we'd be smart to make ourselves blend in for as long as possible. I'm going to wear my slave clothes again. I think you should wear Legion armour. And the beret..." She hesitated, trying to be tactful about it, even though he already knew what was coming. He'd seen camp doctors look less concerned about amputating a man's leg. "The beret isn't going to work."

He'd anticipated that, sure, but he frowned all the same.

It was a practical suggestion. It'd probably mean they'd kill more of those bastards before the centurions came around and organized a real resistance.

Didn't mean he was fond of the idea though. He'd wanted to die as he'd lived, wearing the First Recon colours and his old NCR fatigues, not trussed up in padded armour, a crimson cape and those goddamn leather skirts like some lackey of the Legion.

Boone sighed, practicality winning out. He yanked off the beret and pitched it into the blind. "Fine. Why not? You already got me into a suit."

Six laughed. He'd started to like that sound, although he wasn't usually the one to draw it out. In this instance, it felt like all the reward he needed.

"I'm glad we're finally doing this," she said. "It's going to be a relief - getting it over with."

He decided to make a go with the speech he'd been rehearsing in his head all morning. "No matter what goes down in there, we had a good run. I don't regret anything. Remember that."

Either Six was too distracted to pick up the hint or she just couldn't be bothered to read between the lines. Whatever it was, she didn't seem to get it.

If she had, she might've done more than nod, her gaze focussed on the river. The morning had dawned hard and bright, sparking the distant water with flecks of gold. You couldn't ask for a more beautiful day to die.

"If we don't make through...well, maybe I'll see you later," she murmured.

That surprised him. He hadn't figured her for the type who'd go in for the idea of a higher power. Or at least, any powers higher than President Kimball and her 9mm automatic.

"You believe that?"

"Believe what?"

"That there's something after. This."

"I don't know," she said. "I was mostly kidding around. But maybe. I'd like to."

"Yeah. Me too."

Six leaned forward, smirking at him."Really? I never took you for the spiritual type."

"Never said I was."

"But heaven still sounds like a cushy gig, right?"

Boone shook his head. If she thought he had aspirations in that direction, she had him figured all wrong.

"Not heaven. Never said heaven."

"Then what?"

"All I know is that death is too easy. Some people deserve worse. "

"That's a real sunny outlook."

He glanced back at her. "Yeah, well, the world isn't a real sunny place."

Six didn't contradict him - not outright anyway. She just tilted her head back and squinted up at the desert sun.

"Hmf. Funny. You know what I mean," he said. "Some things that happen - there just isn't enough punishment in this world. Maybe in the next."

"We're talking about the Legion now, right?"

"Yeah. Other people too."

"Jeannie May?"

"She's one."

"Who else?"

"There're lots. Not going to name names."

He could've come up with at least one more to add to the list: Corporal Craig Boone, sniper, First Recon.

"Hell's going to be crowded."

Six made it sound like a joke, but he could tell she didn't approve of his philosophy.

"It's not as if you don't have a few scores to settle."

"I do," she said. "But eternal damnation might be a bit much, even for me. I think I can settle for laying out corpses. Maybe spitting on a grave or two. I figure that'll be enough."

She was still just a beginner at revenge. There was no such thing as enough.

"So it was enough with Benny then. You could just walk away."

"With Benny?"

He knew she was just stalling him, echoing back his question so she'd have time to think up some clever answer. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Yeah. Fancy-boy in the black and white suit. Put two slugs in your head. Don't tell me you forgot him already."

She smirked. "Oh, gee, yeah, that does ring a bell. You know what I thought at the end of that?"

"What?"

"I thought – what a sap. I mean, the guy saw me and he just about jumped out of his skin. Couldn't get his head around the fact he'd been so sloppy. As far as he was concerned, he got put down by a ghost. It almost left me feeling sorry for him, the dumb bastard."

Benny hadn't impressed Boone too much either. Looked a bit like a used brahmin salesman. Dressed like one too.

"Hmn. Could be he's a bad example. It'll be different if you take down that Legion fucker. Trust me."

" was professional with Benny. He was doing his business and I was doing mine. With Vulpes, it's a little more...involved."

"Yeah. Not too hard to figure that one out."

That was a touchy subject. Boone didn't want to remember Inculta's taunts from over the radio or the way those two had goaded each other on, the rancour between them so strong it could have been love gone to rot.

Made his gut churn just remembering it. He didn't want to think that Six had ever belonged to that man. Or worse, that the bastard might still own some small, precious piece of her that he'd never be able to see.

"I didn't say I wouldn't enjoy making him suffer."

When Six said stuff like that, it was always in this real breezy tone, like she was talking about getting a Sunset Sasparilla. It didn't scare many folks straight-off, but it should have.

"Still," she continued, "when the man's dead, he's dead. With any luck, I'll still be kicking. I'll need to find something else to do with myself. Maybe I'll take up knitting."

"If you think it's going to be that simple, you're kidding yourself."

"Knitting? It can't be _that_ hard."

"You know what I mean. Getting past it."

He didn't mention that the chances of either of them making it out of the Fort alive and in one piece were slim to nil. Neither of them would have to worry about finding any new hobbies.

She brushed the hair back from her face.

"I don't know. I have to find a place to cut him off. I give him too much of me...too much of my hate, even...and he's won. That might sound crazy, but if you knew what he was like, if you'd been there –"

"If I'd been there, he'd be dead and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He hadn't meant to sound so gruff, but from the crestfallen look on her face and the way she jolted to her feet and started rummaging through her pack, he could tell that it'd come off like he was telling her to shut up.

Boone hauled himself up and marched over to her. "Didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay. I know what you meant."

"Wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I'm not good at saying it."

Six blinked at him, looking so unsure of how to answer that he just pulled her into his arms and settled the question.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder, her body relaxing into his and Boone couldn't help but want to linger there a while. It was nice to believe that she needed him and that he could protect her, although he knew that once they entered the Fort, there'd be no quarter for either of them.

He'd been hesitant to show any affection for her since they'd started the trip to Cottonwood Cove. To do anything else would have felt like disrespect to Carla. Six seemed to get it, but he would've felt weird trying to spell it out for her.

Anyway, holding onto her for a little while wasn't such a sin. Not when they were about to head out on a suicide mission. If they strung him up to a telephone pole, at least he wouldn't have to regret not saying goodbye.

He stroked a hand through her hair and her lips moved into the semblance of a smile.

"It's going to be a good day," she said.

They changed into their disguises and broke camp, commandeering an old raft to take them to the Fort's landing. The waters of the Colorado glistened with shards of sunlight as Six poled their raft to the eastern side of the river.

Boone crouched on the wood floor, his rifle at the ready, watching the shore through his scope in case any legionaries should come into view. He hadn't spotted any yet. Too bad. Would've been like that old-time shooting gallery he'd been to once, on a trip to Shady Sands.

He'd stolen his armour off a dead Legion veteran. It was hot and bulky, made up of scraps pillaged from Khans and eastern tribesmen, even a few pieces that looked like repurposed NCR gear.

The worst part of the costume, however, was definitely the skirt. Kilt. Whatever the hell it was. Every time Boone wanted to sit his ass down somewhere, he had to worry about getting indecent.

He darted a quick glance over at Six, even though he was supposed to be concentrating on the approaching shoreline. The breeze ruffled her hair and her eyes were bright and expectant, fixed on the eastern edge of the Colorado, the point of no return.

Rex gave a low growl and Boone looked back at the shore. They'd passed around a slight bend in the river and he could see the Fort, a pair of legionaries keeping watch at the landing.

Boone squinted through the scope of his rifle, lining up one of the men in his sights. He adjusted his aim slightly for the drift of the raft and the wind blowing in from the southeast. His finger pressed down on the trigger and the legionary's head jerked to the side, his limbs crumpling beneath him.

The other one ran toward the dock, a battered repeater in hand. He toppled over, gut-shot, before he could get off a round.

Six grinned. "The score's 1-1. Your move."

"Didn't know this was a competition."

"Of course, it is. A hundred caps says I kill more than you."

That was easy money.

"You're on."

The sight of dead legionaries was already doing wonders for his mood. They clambered up onto the dock, gave the bodies the old heave-ho into the river and kept walking along the winding path towards the Fort's gates.

On the way, they passed slave women hauling heavy loads like pack brahmin. Their backs were bowed. Their hair was thin and grey. Dust gathered in the creases of their skin. They kept trudging forward, not looking at him or at Six or even at one another. All that was left for them in the world was the hill and their burden. He wondered if this was what Carla might have become, what Six might've turned into if she hadn't escaped.

They hadn't discussed the possibility of capture and how that might play out if it came to down that. Boone already had an idea what he'd do. Put a bullet in the back of Six's head. Eat his own gun if he had the time. Otherwise, he'd see if he could fall on one of the legionaries' swords or goad them into killing him quick.

If he was lucky, he'd die right after he killed her and he wouldn't have to hang on a cross, feeling guilty about it. Of course, even that would be better than hanging on a cross and listening to her scream.

There were more guards at the main gate. Instead of approaching them as Boone had expected, Six nudged him towards a long trench carved into the hillside. Rex trotted along at their heels, tongue lolling, eager for another taste of Legion meat.

"There's a door through here," she whispered. "Gets used for supplies."

She walked up to the barricade and knocked on an unobtrusive wooden panel, speaking in Latin.

A girl answered from the other side. Boone couldn't understand what she was saying, but it sounded like a question.

Six's reply seemed to be the right one. The panel peeled open and Boone saw a sturdy-looking girl peek around the corner.

"I thought you were gone for good," the girl said. She held a ragged toy bear under one arm. "Sergeant Teddy said your master took you away."

Sergeant wasn't a rank in the Legion. Besides, they wouldn't have given her a toy bear. This girl was another NCR captive. Maybe a soldier's daughter. The thought of it made Boone want to get right back to shooting legionaries in the face.

"I'm back now, Melody." Six crouched down beside the girl, inspecting Sergeant Teddy like he was real patient. "He's looking better since the last time I saw him. How's his leg?"

The kid seemed kind of old for playing pretend, but she seemed to buy into it. Probably needed to, just to get through the day.

"His stitches are okay. He didn't like the dogs though. He's happy you brought him back."

Six put on a happy face, but Boone could hear urgency beneath her measured tone. "Remember when I showed you that quiet place? Behind the temple?"

"Yes."

"Melody, I want you to go to the quiet place and teach Sergeant Teddy how to be good at hiding. Can you do that?"

"I'm not supposed to. I'm supposed to be filling up the feed troughs for the brahmin. We got some caravaners coming in."

"I can do it for you," Six said. "You go to the quiet place, like I said, and you stay in there, even if you hear some noises outside. I need you to show Sergeant Teddy how to keep safe, so he can keep away from the dogs, okay?"

Melody looked unsure about this. "Okay."

"When I'm done with the animals, I'm going to come back and get you two. When I get to the door, I'm going to say Teddy's name so you know it's safe to come out."

"Sure thing. Okay. Bye, Six! Oh, an' watch out for Lavinia. She kicks!"

Melody scrambled away, her brown braid waggling against her shoulders.

"Lavinia's a brahmin," Six explained for Boone's benefit. "Melody gave them all names."

"Funny kid. Don't know though. You shouldn't have made her any promises. We may not be coming back."

Six glared at the path ahead, her jaw set. "We're coming back. I'm not leaving her. I already did that one time too many."

They passed through an alley of squalid tents and flea-bitten bed mats, encountering only slaves and animals. Six's sneaky route was a tour of the most disgusting places in the camp. They passed by the junk heap, fruit rinds and dog meat piled high and rotting in the sun. After that, they took a sharp left turn and followed the sewers, passing the slaves' latrines on the way. Smart way to avoid patrols. Wasn't easy on the nostrils though.

When they reached the forge and the training ground, they finally met with some real resistance. Soldiers ran towards them, heaving spears at their approach.

Boone bolted back, almost catching a barb in the chest. Thrown spears stuck in the earth around him like the bars of a cage. He stomped one down and hustled for cover behind a tent, keeping his eyes peeled for centurions and decanii.

Those were the ones the NCR brass had always told them to take down first. Legion bastards could take orders, but when they lost their leaders, they got desperate and that made them do stupid things. Exactly what he wanted.

Boone saw a veteran pull his sword back from a whetstone and charge Six, his blade nearly taking off her head. She ducked, ramming her body against his chest, knocking him off balance. At that, Rex lunged forward, snarling, tearing at the veteran's legs and dragging him to the ground.

In close quarters, Boone switched over to his pistol, shooting down one legionary only to spin around and find another closing in on his flank with nothing but a javelin.

The young ones were always so bloody eager. He let the guy close in on him a few more steps, waiting until he had a clear line of sight, then shot him twice in the chest.

The next time he spotted Six, she'd taken cover behind a table. Her arm drew back and she lobbed a grenade at a knot of defenders.

The blast ruptured through the camp, an eruption of sand flying up to hide the chaos. When the air cleared, two men lay dead on the ground and another lay wounded, his right leg a bleeding stump.

Somebody cranked open a wooden gate and a pack of war dogs raced towards them, slavering and baring their teeth.

The mongrels were fast and Six had to scurry to avoid getting surrounded by a whole mangy pack of them. When she managed to get back to Boone's side, they started shooting wild, blasting away just to keep the damn things off of them.

Some of the dogs whimpered when they fell and it twisted Boone's heart a bit. He had to remind himself that they weren't Rex, who'd run ahead of them, harrying a lone soldier who'd taken cover behind one of the work tables.

They fought their way further up the hill, edging closer to the large tent at the summit, the one hung with the banners of the Legion. The place stank of Caesar. Boone eyed the place, wondering what its white walls would look like when they were smeared with blood.

An object flew past his head and Boone reeled around, glimpsing someone darting back behind a tent. He fired his pistol and he heard a muffled shriek, a whisper, the sound of feet scuffling in the dirt.

An arm reached around the edge of the tent and his heart went up into his throat. A grenade. He sprang back, throwing himself over Six.

It wasn't until the thing struck him on the back that he realized it was just a rock.

He glanced up, hearing laughter, and saw two boys sprinting away, hollering in Latin. They couldn't have more than four feet tall but they were dressed like men, in the simple armour of Legion recruits. He'd almost shot them – and for what? Tossing stones.

Some of them had been that young in Bitter Springs, younger than that, even, and they hadn't thrown rocks. They hadn't done anything. They'd herded through the low-lying hills, huddled together for comfort or ward off the cold, believing that the NCR would grant them safe passage. When they reached the middle of the chasm, it'd started to rain.

Not water. Bullets.

Bodies spun backward, arms tracing broad arcs through the air as they fell. Blood seeped into the cracked earth. The screams should've lingered in the thick, dusty air, but even the echoes faded fast, muffled under the gunfire. Boone hadn't heeded them then, not really - but he'd heard them every day since. In the night, when he closed his eyes, he'd see the long shadows of dead Khans passing beneath the ridge.

"Boone. What the hell. Just about broke my fucking back."

He blinked, his eyes focussing. Six was staring at him, one hand locked around her gun, the other rubbing the base of her spine.

"Sorry."

She frowned, scanning his face. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

"No. Just got...distracted. Won't happen again."

"Good."

They climbed the steep path towards the imposing white tent where Caesar held sway.

* * *

><p>Six swept open the front flap of Caesar's tent.<p>

"_Ave_."

She raised her pistol and shot one of the assembled Praetorians in the face, shattering his tinted sunglasses.

The element of surprise worked for the first one, but the rest of them wouldn't go down so easy. Six knew better than to let herself get cornered in a tent with a half dozen guards wielding power-fists. She darted outside and the Praetorians dashed after her, pushing through the tent flap and right into Boone's sights.

He took one down with a head shot and felled another with a bullet through the neck.

Six dodged around the side of the tent and fired on them from there, ordering Rex to follow her, in case he became too eager. The last thing she wanted him to do was chase a legionary into that tent.

She heard Lucius ordering the remaining men back into the cover of the tent and she grinned, knowing that the defensive tactic would only demoralize them. Legionaries always liked to be gaining ground. It was what they'd been trained to do on penalty of the death.

Edging her way around the tent, she came to the stack of crates, where Boone had set up with his rifle.

"Smoke them out?"

"Sounds like a plan."

She handed him a grenade from her pack. "Want to do the honours?"

"My pleasure." Boone nodded towards the tent. "Not theirs, though."

He ripped out the pin and ducked out of cover, aiming the grenade through the flap of the tent.

The grenade rolled just under the door. Six saw a boot draw out as if to kick it away.

They weren't fast enough. The blast blew out the main entrance of the tent and she could make out the outlines of the remaining guards writhing under the burning canvas. She and Boone set to shooting everything that moved under there.

Six walked around the other side, looking for potential exits. The throne room and the imperial quarters were still intact, but the tent was burning now and Caesar would have to come out. If she was lucky, maybe he'd bring Vulpes with him.

Rex gave a loud bark and she turned, seeing a stocky blonde man emerge from the far side of the tent, armed with a power-fist.

The mighty Caesar looked nothing like the solemn, aristocratic profile stamped on the backs of denarius. His face was broad and pugnacious, he had a snub nose and his hairline was beating a quick and ignoble retreat from his forehead. Vulpes had always made him out to be the Son of Mars, the ideal Roman, but in the flesh, it was clear that he was just some narcissistic son of a bitch who'd built his own twisted historical fantasy with guns, blades and a pack of brain-washed tribals.

Caesar spotted Six and rushed at her, swinging his power-fist.

Six lowered her gun and aimed for his right leg. She'd hoped to knee-cap him but hit his thigh instead.

He flinched, stumbling, but righted himself and kept advancing, his face flushed, bluish veins bulging from his broad forehead.

Backing up, she shot him again in the other leg. This time Caesar toppled, his power-fist driving into the ground.

Six advanced a few steps, circling around him, well aware that he was still capable of doing damage. In fact, he was trying to drag himself forward, propped up on just his elbows, his knees scuffing over the dry earth.

She glanced up just in time to see Boone come peeling around the side of the tent. When he caught sight of Caesar on the ground, he raised his gun to fire.

Six lifted her hand. "Hold off a minute. I've just got one thing to ask the fucker. After that, you can do whatever you want to him."

Boone frowned, but he was a natural at taking orders, even ones he didn't like. He lowered his gun.

Six looked down at Caesar, who glowered back at her, his eyes dark with hatred.

"Where's Vulpes?" she asked.

Caesar chuckled through his pain. "Of all the things you could ask me, you choose that question, courier. Why would I concern myself with where that treacherous piece of shit got off to? Were you hoping for a little master-slave reunion?"

She gaped at him, surprised that he knew who she was – or at least, her job title and to whom she'd once belonged. They'd never laid eyes on each other before and she doubted that Vulpes had been willing to admit that he'd screwed up royal by bringing his slave on a mission.

Even with a couple of bullets in him, Caesar still looked smug. "Come on, you think I didn't keep tabs on him? You think I didn't know every book he read, every piece of contraband he smuggled in here and every whore he was screwing? And when one very irritating whore mysteriously up and disappears and he starts acting like a fuck-up, did you honestly believe that I was just going to let that slippery bastard come crawling back?"

It was funny, but Six was almost tempted to shoot back a retort in Vulpes' defense. For one thing, she was certain that he'd never entertained the idea of crawling to anyone.

Six glanced back at Boone. "He's got nothing. He's all yours."

She'd hoped that this would make the man more inclined to share information, but if Caesar was afraid of the prospect of falling into Boone's hands, he didn't show it.

"You may kill me but the Legion will live on in my name. History remembers greatness."

"That's why it'll forget you," she said. "Just a pathetic copy of some other man's glory. A throwback. I read Vulpes' books too. The Empire wasn't all that much fun the first time around."

"And what is the NCR? A nation of bureaucrats and tax collectors. The worst of the Republic. Better to harken back to the days of glory than to mediocrity, selfishness and corruption."

"I wonder how long that tumour's been festering in your head," Six replied. "They can grow in there for years sometimes, before they become malignant. It could be that this whole Legion of yours is just a symptom of your brain going to mush."

Boone had put away his gun and come back with one of the legionaries' machetes.

Caesar glared at him as he approached, crippled, but still able to make use of the power-fist within his limited range. He took a swipe at Boone's legs.

Sidestepping the blow, Boone brought the machete down on Caesar's arm.

The man groaned, blood streaming from the open wound. He tried the power-fist again, but it fizzled and sparked, too damaged to work.

Boone's next cut sliced at Caesar's torso and the tyrant fell onto his back, cursing and swinging the busted power-fist into empty air.

Six watched Boone hack the Legion's demi-god to death, striking so many times that he had to stop and catch his breath.

"Thumbs down, you son of a bitch."

It took more effort to sever Caesar's head. Boone had to dig a knife into the place where the dead man's skull met the vertebrae, striking the grip of the blade like he was hammering in a spike. Six wasn't sure why he even bothered with the grisly business, but maybe it was something he'd thought up in advance.

When Boone was done, Six stared at the head on the ground. Caesar's expression was surprisingly blank now, no sneer on his lips and all traces of spite drained from his eyes.

"You want to dry it out and shrink it?" she asked. "Keep his skull and use it for a beer mug?"

"No," Boone said. "Would make the booze taste like shit."

"Then why'd you want to cut off the head?"

"Not sure. Felt inspired."

With that, he drew back his boot and punted the thing down the hill.

Six started to cackle. The whole thing was gleefully absurd, in the way of a dream – or a nightmare. It might be that somewhere along the way, she'd lost her mind. It could be that, right now, she didn't want it back, didn't care whether whole world was splintering around her, sharp as glass. The Praetorian Guard dead under a fallen tent. Caesar's make-shift palace burning, smoke billowing up to the blazing blue of a desert sky. His balding head rolling down the hill like a leather ball. There was too much of everything. It all felt unreal.

Somewhere, Vulpes must have been chuckling too. By taking the Fort, they'd saved his life. They'd cleared the field for him, too, if he was bold enough to seize the bull by its horns and take command of the Legion. Six just hoped that they'd killed enough legionaries to weaken or discredit Vulpes, so that another officer might strive to take his place.

When Boone turned, she saw the flash of genuine smile play across his lips and for an instant, he looked like a completely different person than the dour sniper she'd been travelling with for the past four months. Six wondered if this was a glimpse of the person that Manny and Carla had known. She could see why they'd liked him.

"Bet Caesar didn't see that coming when he sat down to coffee this morning. Probably not going to stop the Legion, but it sure felt good."

"It did," she said.

They'd always talked about getting here, but Six didn't think that either of them had really believed they'd manage to kill Caesar. She just wished she could lay out Vulpes' body next to Caesar and Lucius.

When they'd finished confirming their kills, Six raced back down the hill, eager to fulfil her promise to Melody. She rushed towards the main square and took a shortcut through the dining halls.

They ran into a few Legion stragglers along the way, but nothing that they couldn't handle. Some of the men even fled at the sight of them, against all their training. Six strove to take down as many as she could, even if it meant shooting a half-dozen in the back. They'd get their courage back later and she didn't want them running off to support Vulpes, wherever he might be lurking.

Amidst the chaos, however, her mind kept turning back to Melody. They'd have to do something to take care of her. Six sure as hell wasn't leaving her at the Fort.

She'd have to find out how much the girl remembered of her family. The child must've had someone before the Legion had taken her. From what Six had observed of Melody's behaviour, she imagined that her people had ties to the NCR. If she took the girl back to McCarran, they might be able track someone down who knew them or at least discover if it brought any memories back for her.

If no family came forward to claim her, Six had already decided her course of action. She would take care of Melody herself.

It'd be an adjustment, for sure. For one thing, she'd have to learn to cook. Take-out from the Tops probably wasn't going to cut it , she'd have to take the platinum chip and get clean out of the Mojave too, even if it meant selling her stake in Gomorrah to Cass or Francine Garret, even if it meant giving up all her friendships and her hard-fought chance at revenge.

She'd need to take Melody somewhere quiet and stable, where there'd be counsellors around to get the girl's head back on straight. Maybe Shady Sands or one of the communities nestled along the Pacific Coast, where Margaret had come from, in another life.

If all else failed, Six knew she could always surrender her pride and go limping back the Followers. They'd give her work and they'd know what to do to help a girl who'd spent over half her life believing she was less valuable than the brahmin she milked and fed.

Six knew it wasn't going to be easy, dragging herself back from the edge, hearing about Vulpes and Hoover Dam on the radio but not having a chance to affect the outcomes. She'd need to change the colour of her hair, the cut of her clothes and take on yet another name if she was going to evade Vulpes' spies and House's mechanical army. The kid would need stability. She'd need a place to recover what she'd lost.

Six's mind was full of plans, visions of a little sun-drenched town with white picket fences and the flag of the two-headed bear flapping in the breeze. She was almost starting to like the idea when she arrived at the quiet place, a small shrine to Vesta behind the Temple of Mars.

She knocked on the door. "Sergeant Teddy. You did a good job hiding. Time to come out now."

There was no answer.

She tried the door. It swung open. The place was empty.

"Not here," Boone said, just in case she'd missed the obvious.

Six swallowed the hard lump in her throat, trying to quell the panic surging inside her.

"She could've gone back. To the brahmin pens."

Melody was a smart girl. She hadn't survived this long without knowing how to avoid the legionaries. Maybe there'd been too many of them along her path and she'd opted to find another hiding place.

They re-traced their steps back towards the brahmin pens, finding dead bodies scattered along their route. Most worryingly, they weren't Legion. They were civilians - slaves and caravaners, anyone who wasn't wearing a uniform. Most of them were unarmed and had been cut down by machetes.

Rex loped ahead, baying, and Six saw the small body crumpled on the ground, half-hidden beneath a table. Sergeant Teddy lay a few feet away, his seams split to reveal dirty stuffing.

That's when she really started to lose it. She turned away, gasping, sure that she was going to throw up, although there was nothing in her stomach but a Fancy Lad Cake and some purified water.

Boone's hands steadied her shoulders. "Six, it's..."

"Not my fault? I think we both know that's not true."

"You weren't the one holding the gun."

Six shook her head. "Sometimes, you don't have to be."

He didn't offer any disagreement on that.

She gulped down a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Slowly, carefully, she edged over to Melody's body. She wanted to see. She wanted to remember. She couldn't regret taking down the Fort or killing Caesar, but she had to know the cost – and it was high.

Rex gave a low whimper, probably worried that he'd done something to anger her. She put her hand down on his back, intending to pet him, but she forgot to move her hand and so they just sat there, motionless, looking at one body amidst the slaughter.

She didn't realize that Boone had walked away until he came back with a shovel.

He set it down in front of her and crouched down, lifting Melody into his arms.

"Come on. Need to show me where you want to put her."

Her hand closed around the handle of the shovel. She picked up Sergeant Teddy from the ground and stood, pushing the stuffing back into the bear's chest. She tucked him underneath her arm.

They buried Melody and her bear in a shallow grave by the shrine of Vesta.

Six kneeled down, patting the mound of earth. They'd buried her. At least they'd managed that much.

She eased back up to her feet. "Let's move."

"We done here?"

"Not yet," she said. "There's something I need to check out."

They walked back to the main square, to the sturdy grey tent that had once been the property of Vulpes Inculta.

When Six parted the tent doors and looked inside, she made two unusual discoveries.

Firstly, everything in the tent was still intact – surprising with the news of Vulpes' banishment - although the space had been rearranged, with a bunk in one corner and a broad table introduced into the center of the room.

The other shocking change was that there was woman sitting at the table, drinking from a small clay goblet.

Six stared at the woman, wondering why this cut her so deeply. Vulpes had found another slave and done all the same things to her. Of course, he had. Why wouldn't he? She was disposable, replaceable, forgettable. That was how the Legion worked.

The woman turned in her chair, seizing the letter opener from the side of the table. It occurred to Six that she might launch herself from her seat and try to rush them, but instead the woman drew the blade upward, pressing it against her throat.

She spoke in rapid-fire Latin. "Don't come any closer. I'm not afraid to die."

Six held her hands out, palms facing upwards. "We don't want to hurt you."

The woman shook her head, the blade still biting into the cords of her throat. "They brought you here to lie. They thought I'd listen to a woman."

She turned her gaze towards Boone. "If you kill me, my father will discover your name. He'll track you down and when he finds you, he will not be kind."

It took Six a second to remember that Boone was dressed as one of the Legion, while she was still just wearing slave's garb. The woman probably thought that she was a collaborator, working under his command.

"We didn't come here to kill you. I used to live here. I was his slave too."

The woman gave her an incredulous look, her grip on the blade easing. Her eyebrows lifted and she started to laugh.

"A slave, too? Oh, you fool. You stupid, pitiable creature. What did you take me for? I'm not some vile bed-warmer. I'm Vulpes Inculta's lawful wife."


	23. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Six stared at Vulpes' wife, observing details that she hadn't noted before. While the woman's clothes were simple and home-spun, subdued in colour, the material was softer-looking than the hempen shifts that most slave women wore. She looked no older than her early twenties, even younger, perhaps, but she had the self-possession and the mannerisms of a much older woman. Her hair was scraped back into a neat bun that made her face look harsher than it had to be and her gaze was full of quiet accusations.

The woman rewarded Six's curiosity with a bitter smile. "Am I to understand you were one of his whores? If Vulpes were here, he'd carve your eyes out before he let you look at me thus."

Rex bared his teeth, his throat rumbling with a low growl. Six grabbed the dog's collar and gave him a warning look, the one she'd seen The King fix on him whenever Pacer had entered the room. It worked, although the mutt whimpered when she did it. Rex wouldn't have given that kind of backtalk to The King.

Boone didn't understand the woman's Latin, but he had no trouble picking up on the hostility in her tone.

"Is there a problem?" He put an ominous emphasis on the final word as if remind her that he was a _problem-solver_. Unfortunately, Boone tended to resolve issues at the barrel of a gun.

Six wasn't sure that she should tell him that this was Vulpes' wife. She didn't want to believe Boone would be so cruel, but it occurred to her that he might think the woman's presence was a sign and decide to take an extra bit of revenge for Carla. Perhaps he'd consider just a fair exchange – an eye for an eye, one dead wife for another.

She preferred to err on the side of caution. "It's okay," she said, switching back to English. "Just a brainwashed slave. Take Rex outside and guard the tent. I can deal with her."

From the way Boone looked at her, it was evident he wasn't happy about this plan, but he nodded his head at Rex and turned to make his exit.

"I'm right outside. And if I hear anything, I'm coming back in."

Vulpes' wife regarded this scene with narrowed eyes, her letter-opener now pointed squarely at Six, although from the way she was holding the blade, it didn't look as though she'd be able to do much with it.

Boone was right, though. She should still be careful. Corner a person and make her desperate enough and she might try anything.

"What's your name?" Six asked in Latin, working to keep her voice level, to conceal her anger. Any displays of indignation would only increase woman's outrage.

"I suppose I must answer, slave. I am Lucilla Varinus Inculta. Although , by rights, you should call me _Domina_."

At this, Six realized why some of her features looked so familiar. She was Lucius' daughter. With Lucilla's short, straight nose and her determined jaw, there was more than a passing family resemblance.

Six had never guessed that Lucius was Vulpes' father-in-law. In retrospect, it explained a great deal about their strained, almost torturously civil relations. It also explained why Six had previously found herself on the receiving end of more than a few disapproving looks from Lucilla's daddy dearest. Vulpes had made himself a clever marriage alliance, but it'd come with a lot of strings attached.

In the suddenness of this revelation, Six blurted out the most relevant thing that came to mind.

"Your father is dead."

It wasn't the most sensitive way of delivering the news. Six regretted the impulsiveness of her words, even if she couldn't regret what she'd done to Lucius. She wasn't used to thinking about legionaries having families, being loved, being mourned. She did her best to imagine them all as deathclaws dressed in human skin.

Lucilla's eyes glinted in the half-light, but her expression did not waver.

"Your man outside killed him?"

"No. I did."

Lucilla sniffed. Apparently, she found the notion of a woman killing a Praetorian thoroughly ridiculous. "In that case, I suppose Caesar is dead, too?"

"Yes."

"At least you did something right."

Her bluntness was almost amusing.

"You're pleased."

"My husband's enemy is dead."

"And Vulpes is still alive?"

"Do you plan to murder him as well?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do."

"You will fail, as many others have done before you," Lucilla said. "We reserve special punishments for slaves who betray their masters. A cross would be too good for you."

Six ignored the threats. She'd had her fill of them already with Vulpes and they seemed absurd coming from a woman wielding only a letter opener. Apparently, Lucilla's daddy had never taught her the value of keeping her mouth shut.

"He dragged you here and abandoned you. This might be a time to reconsider your loyalties."

"You know nothing. I came here of my own free will. And if Vulpes did not return to this place, it was at my warning."

"You knew Caesar and your father were planning to kill him? So you wrote him a letter. You know where he is."

"I did then," Lucilla said. "He could be anywhere now. Although, if I know my husband, he is most likely sitting at the head of Lanius' army. You could visit him if you wished. I'm sure he'd be most glad to kill you."

"Vulpes can certainly try," Six replied. "If he lives long enough for me to get to him. Even if he manages to buy the centurions' loyalty, the army won't follow him for long. Your Legion wants a bull, not a fox."

Lucilla appeared to contemplate this, her face inscrutable. At last, she frowned, shaking her head. "If you think you know Vulpes, profligate, you flatter yourself. You don't understand the first thing about him. Did he even see fit to mention he had a wife?"

It was true. There were many things that Six had never known or even thought to ask. In retrospect, she probably should have guessed that a man of Vulpes' age and status would have taken a wife long before they'd met. She'd never given much thought to how different things might be in Flagstaff or Phoenix, far away from the frontlines.

"It wasn't something that ever came up."

"He wouldn't have let your mouth sully my name."

Six wasn't looking for a fight, but there were only so many insults she was willing to swallow. "That's one theory. I can think of a few others."

"Tell me, slave, do you plan to vex me all day with your ceaseless prattle?" Lucilla snapped. "Or will you let me burn my dead?"

This was a question that required some serious thought. Six had no idea what to do with the woman.

Forging an alliance was clearly out of the question. Besides killing Lucilla's father, Six had inadvertently become an interloper in her marriage. The lady had at least two excellent reasons for wanting her to suffer an excruciating death– and Six found that usually wasn't the most solid foundation for a productive partnership.

On the other hand, taking Lucilla hostage might've proved useful – assuming Six had a way of notifying Vulpes of the situation and that he actually cared enough to negotiate. She had her doubts on that last condition. Even if Vulpes was capable of concern for another human being, he wasn't likely to fold his hand on threats alone. He'd be sure to call Six on the bluff, knowing that she wasn't the type to start sending him his wife's severed fingers in manila envelopes.

Keeping the woman within arm's reach would probably wind up being more trouble than it was worth. When it came down to it, Six just didn't want to deal with hauling around some haughty Legion harpy, especially one who seemed dead-set on snapping at her as if she was still her husband's property. Better to let the little wifey go scurrying back to Vulpes – with one of the sensors Six had picked up from the Boomers in the bitch's back pocket.

Not that Lucilla's garments actually had pockets. That just would have been too convenient.

"Put down the letter opener and we can discuss an exit strategy," Six said. "As it happens, I'm not looking to hurt you."

With that, she took off her pack and set it on the ground, rifling around in the left pocket until her hand closed around a sensor. She'd have to find somewhere to place it, but it'd be easy to track the signal on her Pip-Boy as she'd done to find the location of the plane in Lake Mead.

Lucilla set down the blade with some reluctance. "Very well, slave. I consent to hear you speak. For a time."

Six had pulled an old jacket out of the bag and slipped the sensor into a hole in the coat's lining.

"I want you gone, Lucilla. It's that simple. I don't have anything personal against you. I'll even give you some items to help you on your way."

She handed the jacket to Lucilla, along with a compass and a flask of water. "I don't know if you've been out in the Wasteland before, but there're sandstorms and it gets cold at night. You'll want this because I'm not giving you time to pack any bags."

Lucilla scowled at the gifts, but accepted them anyway, balling the jacket up in her arms. Six hoped that the sensor would stay in the lining. If it fell out, Lucilla might not recognize it, but Vulpes would. No doubt he would contrive to have it placed in a cazador's nest or in a transport truck leaking radioactive waste.

"You will not look so pleased with yourself when my husband's boot is on your throat," the woman said.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" Six answered. "When you track down Vulpes, tell him his whore said hello. Tell him I'm sorry I'm going to have to make you a widow."

"Perhaps you can tell him yourself, before he guts you."

Six laughed. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that. Not a whole lot of gratitude or common sense but in the Legion, I guess only slaves need manners."

Pulling open the tent flap, she gestured to the exit like a hostess on a Pre-War gameshow. "After you, _Domina_."

She said the word 'Domina' with an excessive deference that practically dripped mockery.

If Lucilla understood the joke, she chose to overlook it. She lifted her chin and marched out the door, not deigning to answer Six or to glance at Boone as she passed.

Boone tapped the side of his cigarette, flicking ash at the woman's retreating figure. "Hmf. Kind of uppity for a slave."

Six shrugged. "It takes all kinds."

She rummaged around Vulpes' tent, finding little of value, at least to her. Most of the possessions remaining in the tent were Lucilla's – her clothes, her distaff and needlework, even a few rounded clay figures that Six recognized as fertility idols, although they mustn't have been of much use. Vulpes wouldn't have been so obsessed with getting a slave knocked up if the damn things had actually worked.

All of the contraband books that Vulpes had accumulated were gone, replaced by a single volume of Caesar's Commentaries – not the one by Julius Caesar, which had featured among Vulpes' collection, but the Legion's plagiarized version, describing the Son of Mars' victories over the tribes.

The bedroll had vanished too, although the memory of what had passed there still oppressed her. There was still a rut in the ground where it had lain. Six crouched down, running her hand over the soil, rubbed down smooth by the motion of their bodies in the dark.

"This is the place then. Where you lived."

She turned, seeing Boone silhouetted in the doorway. Rex nosed his way into the tent as well, panting, happy, perhaps, to be out of the sun's glare.

"This is it."

"You okay?"

She nodded, her palm still pressed against the ground. If Boone knew what the rut in the earth meant she doubted he'd be regarding her so calmly.

"It's odd. So much has changed."

"What did you want?"

"I don't know. Maybe just to see it again."

She stood, brushing the dirt from her hands.

"Come on. Let's go. I've done enough remembering for today."

They crossed the river in exhausted silence, Boone manoeuvring the raft while Six sat on the floor, Rex's head resting on her knee.

They made Cottonwood Cove just before sunset and paused at their old camp to change out of their Legion costumes and into some decent clothes. Six stripped down without a moment's thought or hesitation, grateful to have the itchy hempen dress off her skin. Boone paused, seeming to take this in, but when it came time for him to undress, he turned his back to her, as if she'd never seen him naked, as if they'd never been lovers and there was still a reason for modesty.

It frustrated Six, although she didn't know how to explain her disappointment. She didn't want to just steal glances at his wide shoulders and the ripple of muscle over his back. She wanted to look at him long enough to take everything in and know that he accepted her gaze, that he invited it.

Six was going to settle in and light a fire for dinner, but Boone stopped her as she piled up the first armload of kindling.

"Not here. It's time to move on."

They walked northward, the night crushing in around them, until they came within sight of Ranger Station Delta. Boone swung his pack to the ground. He seemed relieved not to be within spitting distance of Cottonwood.

"Figure this is as a good a place as any."

Six eyed the pale light emanating from the ranger station, noting what looked to be the outline of a sniper crouched on the roof. It was certainly safer than their old encampment, at least when it came to Legion attacks. Other predators, however, were never far away. Just a few minutes earlier, they'd heard a mournful howling echo through the gully and Rex's ears had perked up at the prospect of encountering coyotes or better yet, nightstalkers.

They set up a circle of stones to serve as a firepit. Six heaped up desert brush and some scrap wood collected from the remains of Cottonwood in the middle and after a few tries, Boone managed to coax up a decent fire. It made enough smoke to choke a bighorn and make a deathclaw's eyes water, but that was nothing new.

Six watched the flames dance, her mind turning back to Melody and that little mound of dirt on the edge of the hill, cold now, enveloped by darkness.

Boone shuffled closer to her on the rock, his shoulder pressing against hers, the back of his hand grazing her thigh. She glanced at him to see if this was intentional and found him looking back at her, the firelight reflected in the depths of his pupils.

"You're quiet."

"I am," she said.

"Wish you'd say something."

That was new. Usually she had the sense that he was waiting for things to lapse back into silence.

"What should I say?"

"Don't know. Whatever you're thinking."

"You don't want to hear about that."

"You're thinking about the girl."

She wasn't going to lie. "Yes."

"You think we caused it."

She didn't answer.

"Maybe we did," he said. "Got to live with that. It's still different from pulling the trigger."

"On the way there, I had this idea she'd come with me, you know? I thought...well, what if I can't find her people? She's still just a kid. Can't leave her alone. Needs somebody to take care of her."

Six gave a grim chuckle. "Don't know why I thought I'd be any damn good at it. Can barely take care of myself as it is."

She felt his arm curling around her shoulder and his hand cupped the back of her neck.

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"It isn't."

She sighed. "My thoughts aren't any fucking good right now."

"Know what that's like. Just playing it over, like you can go back and get it right."

"Cottonwood?"

"Sometimes. Bitter Springs, too. Comes back a lot. Especially today."

"All the civilians," she said.

"Yeah. Like I said, you can feel bad about what went down today. That's your right. But I've seen worse. I've done worse."

Six had the sense that he was trying to comfort her, but it was a strange kind of consolation to be comparing battle scars and figuring out who had the most blood on their hands.

"And I'm sure there are plenty of people who've done worse than that."

"But it doesn't make a difference. Because you wanted to do better. And there's no going back."

Six watched a spark rise from the campfire and wither to ash. She could tell Boone was working up to something and so she left him some space to go on, but it still came as shock when he started to fill up the silence.

"There're things I never told you about Bitter Springs. I'm thinking that maybe it's time. If you want to know."

Of course she wanted to know. People had been dropping ominous hints about what had gone down at Bitter Springs for as long as she could remember and she was curious to discover what Boone had experienced firsthand. She'd just never expected him to volunteer that information, not without some serious convincing.

"I'm listening."

Boone said more in five minutes than he'd sometimes said in five days. He told her about the Khans at Bitter Springs and why First Recon had been sent after them. He told her about sitting up on the ridge overlooking the settlement, waiting for gang leaders and murderers, and finding women and kids and old folks instead. He told her about the radio messages to NCR high command for confirmation and how the orders didn't change. And then he told her about how they'd opened fire.

Most of the facts weren't new. From talking to people around the outposts, Six had gleaned enough to know that Bitter Springs was one of the NCR's dirty little secrets, one among many incidents in which the Republic had veered away from the ideals of democracy, stability and order that it was supposed to represent. From those conversations, she'd learned that innocent people had died there, although she hadn't anticipated the kind of massacre that Boone described or the degree of callousness shown by some of the NCR officers.

What Six really hadn't figure out until then was Boone's notion of cosmic justice – the sheer extent of it and how it seemed to admit no hope of atonement. He thought what'd happened to Carla and the baby was connected to the part he'd played in Bitter Springs, as if there was some relentless force in the Great Beyond that was going to keep punishing him and everyone he knew until it'd avenged every last man, woman and child First Recon had shot in that pass.

"Have you ever thought of going back there?" she asked him.

"What for?"

"As a way of remembering, I guess."

Boone folded his arms across his chest. "I never forgot."

"It's just an idea."

"I guess I wouldn't mind seeing it again. If we were ever in the neighbourhood."

Bitter Springs was less than a day's march from Camp Golf and they passed through the NCR base all the time. A journey east to the outpost wouldn't take them too far off of the beaten path.

It wasn't a trip Six wanted to take right away, not when they should be checking in on their friends back in New Vegas, but a future visit wasn't out of the question. She could think of worse things than a few hours' hike around the shores of Lake Mead.

"I think that can be arranged, one of these days."

"If there's time," Boone said. "Anyway, I figured you should know the whole story. After the Fort, I thought maybe it'd help put things into perspective."

Six saw where he was going with that. He wanted to remind her that they hadn't intended to incite the slaughter of civilians at the Fort. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, they probably didn't have the same degree of culpability as the legionaries who'd actually chosen to pick up machetes and cut down whoever they could find to blame for the attack.

That knowledge still wasn't going to bring Melody back or rescue the other slaves and caravaners that the leather-skirts had hacked to pieces. The massacre had happened because she and Boone had go after the Fort, because they'd wanted their vengeance and hadn't considered what that vengeance might entail. They'd been the cause even if they hadn't been the effect and Six knew she was going to have trouble dealing with that.

Collateral damage. That was the NCR term. It made everything sound so tidy.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to do that yet," Six told him. "Thanks, though. I know it wasn't easy. Trusting me with that."

Boone stood up, patting her shoulder, and set to unpacking his bedroll, a sure sign that he wanted some solitude to mull everything over.

"I'll take watch," Six announced, even though he was already gone and it seemed like a foregone conclusion. Under other circumstances, Boone's sudden departure might have annoyed her, but after the day they'd had, she doubted she was going to get much sleep anyway.


	24. The Fox: Third Interlude

Silus and two of his men dragged the captured deserters into the tent, unceremoniously shoving them onto their knees in the dirt.

Vulpes regarded the prisoners thoughtfully, examining their faces for a sign of defiance, but none of them rewarded him with even a trace of insolence. They were like men made of clay, their eyes downcast, their bodies sagging to the earth as if longing to go back to their true substance.

"Account for yourselves, maggots," Silus barked at them.

Vulpes had been expecting the usual dreary tale of mutiny and dereliction of duty, one that would inevitably end in crucifixions. What he heard from them instead was most propitious news, although he doubted anyone in Phoenix would interpret it in quite such an optimistic fashion.

Profligates had overrun Cottonwood Cove and stormed the Fort, killing Caesar and the Praetorian Guard. The civil war had finished before it'd even started and he was only the one left on the field. In light of this, it took a concerted effort to manufacture an expression of appropriate rage and indignation at the report of the defeat.

It helped to consider the loss of resources they'd suffered. The depletion of a century or two was an annoyance, certainly, but Caesar's camp had never boasted the bulk of the Legion's armies. It'd been a defensive position and a supply hub, particularly for the transportation of slaves. Had Vulpes' supporters been forced to confront those of Caesar in battle, the Legion would surely have sustained a much more grievous loss of life. No, if there was a genuine misfortune in this raid on the Fort, it was a tragedy of economics.

Vulpes darted a glance at Silus, wondering if he understood the significance of the moment. From the rapacious gleam in his brother's eyes, it seemed he had a small inkling of what this might mean for them, if they seized the occasion.

Silus dropped to one knee, saluting him. "Hail, Caesar!"

There was a moment of baffled silence, as the assembled soldiers realized the implications of this, and then other knees bent, other voices chimed in.

"Hail, Caesar!"

"Hail, Caesar!"

"Hail, Caesar!"

Vulpes rose from his seat to accept the accolades, scanning the room as he did so. He took careful note of the half-hearted ones or any who didn't appear to be joining the chant.

At a suitable hour, he'd conduct the purges necessary to secure his regime, sending the best of his Frumentarii into the night to wake the unsuspecting dissidents with knives to their throats. In the days of Caesar, there had been open lists of proscriptions posted in the fora of the cities, but Vulpes preferred the elegance of assassinations. It encouraged a scintillating undercurrent of paranoia that prompted everyone to keep up their very best behaviour.

"I grieve the loss of Mars' son and the weakness of age and debility that lead to his defeat," he said. "But let us not dwell on the errors of the dead or waste our indignation on the traitors who poisoned our departed lord's mind with mistrust against his most loyal friends. This is a time to pay blood onto blood."

This earned a few whoops from the legionaries at the back of the tent. Likely, they were hoping for raids, more chances to loot the towns of the dissolute and take captives to sell. Vulpes resolved to give them ample opportunity for that.

He waited for the cheers to die down before he continued.

"We will avenge this slight upon the profligates sevenfold. For every legionary who died on Fortification Hill, we will raise ten crosses in the Wasteland. We will make the desert a forest of their dying and their dead. Some among you may have heard tales of the Lottery I held in Nipton. When we conquer New Vegas, we shall have another and it'll be the best game of all."

Vulpes looked to Silus, who was watching him expectantly, no doubt hoping for a hand-out. His brother reminded him of a hound begging for table scraps, yet, in this affair, he'd played his part well. Vulpes decided that, so long as Silus served him as faithfully, he'd never be left wanting.

"Centurion Silus, you are hereby promoted to the command of my Praetorian Guard. Appoint men as you see fit."

Silus nodded, having trouble suppressing a smile. He turned his gaze down upon the soldiers who'd outlived the fall of the Fort. "What do you want me to do with these bastards?"

The man's contempt for the survivors was richly ironic, considering he'd also had the gall to keep breathing after a shameful defeat.

"Today, the gods have smiled upon them," Vulpes said. "You will scourge the cretins, 20 lashes a man. After that, you will trim away their ears and slice off their noses. Those who survive this treatment may rejoin their units at the lowest rank, but they shall not have armour or any weapon better than a cudgel until they've earned them again in battle."

Over the next few days, Vulpes came to discover that he was very fond of his newfound status. The title of imperator had a charming sound to it. There were times, however, when he didn't recognize the name "Caesar" as his own. Vulpes' first instinct was always that they were talking to the old man, as if, by some horrible miracle, his liege lord had survived the Fort and come sauntering into camp, brandishing his power-fist.

As great as his relief that Caesar was dead, Vulpes still had a certain benighted loyalty to him – or at least to the man he'd been, before the tumour and everything that'd come with it. That man had pulled him from a cross. That man had given him everything he'd ever had.

If the tales were true, Six and her sniper had cut Caesar's head off and kicked it down the hill, into the mire surrounding the kennel gates. Having the woman kill his enemies for him had been useful, but it still infuriated Vulpes to imagine his former lord's body subject to such indignities.

Lucilla arrived with more stories of the Fort, accompanied by two of the newly appointed Praetorians.

Vulpes had assumed that his wife had died in the chaos of the attack, as had many of the camp women, both spouses and slaves. Evidently, Six had spared her.

Not that this had earned the woman any gratitude from Lucilla. If anything, it'd only increased his wife's ire, for who wanted the mercy of a profligate? In this regard, Lucius had trained his daughter well.

"You would have done better to let me pick your whores," Lucilla said tartly, when the Praetorians had departed. "A nice, docile creature from out of Flagstaff would have saved us all a vast deal of trouble."

A sensible woman, Lucilla. Vulpes had no doubt that she would've sent him as many tame Arizona slaves as he'd wanted, ones who'd have snapped to his every command and serviced him with the mechanical efficiency of those revolting sex-bots so favoured by the profligates. Even if this had appealed to him, such slaves would also have been trained to issue his wife reports on all of his activities. After all, Lucilla was a sensible woman. She knew better than to trust a husband who made deception his living.

"What did the slave say? When you encountered her?"

Vulpes resolved not to say Six's name before Lucilla. To do so might tip her off that there had been something unusual about his relations with the slave, something that was not altogether... civilized. His wife probably already suspected as much, but if he confirmed her in the belief, he'd never hear the end of it.

"She was impudent, as I've told you," Lucilla sniped. "She informed me that she planned to make me a widow. There was a man with her also. At first, I thought he was a legionary. He was dressed as such, but he didn't appear to know Latin and he smoked those white sticks the profligates use."

That was probably the sniper, Corporal Boone. Unfortunate that he still lived. Vulpes planned to rectify that.

"Were there any others?"

"There was a hound. It looked like one of the mongrels that Father used to favour, from that breeder in Phoenix, but part of its brain was exposed under glass and it had mechanical limbs."

Lucilla had not encountered support troops or seen anything that might fit the description of NCR heavy artillery. So far as anyone could tell, Six had taken down the Fort with only the aid of one man and a dog. It was an absurd feat – but impressive. Startling, in truth.

Vulpes had to assume that she'd had help from inside the fort, as a direct assault on the gates would've been impossible for such a paltry few. If the traitors didn't already number among the dead, he'd track the wretches down and make examples of them.

"In any case," he said, "I'm pleased that you still live and managed to make your way here."

It wasn't a lie. While he and Lucilla had never enjoyed any great affection, she'd been a loyal wife, an efficient manager of their property and her status as Lucius' daughter certainly wouldn't hurt his popularity. Furthermore, she'd opposed her own father's interests to warn him of the trap that Caesar and Lucius had been setting for him back at the Fort. Vulpes hadn't forgotten that. It merited consideration.

"Pleased, are you?" she said. "I'd never have guessed."

"Perhaps I should've become a grinning fool and unmanned myself before the guards?"

"It's been over a year. It would become a man to smile upon his wife."

More than a year. Hmm, so it had. He'd hardly noticed. His thoughts had been...otherwise occupied. In any case, Vulpes did not find much occasion to travel back to Phoenix anymore, as he had in the days when he'd still had hopes of siring sons upon Lucilla. The frontier intrigued him much more than the Empire itself – perhaps because he was a student of profligate culture and perhaps because it offered a venue for his talents that the orderly imperial cities did not.

"And it doesn't become a wife to hector her husband," he said. "Particularly when he's just finished making her the first woman of Arizona. Does it not please you to be called 'Imperatrix'?"

"You did well," Lucilla said, rather grudgingly but he believed she meant it. "It would've been more pleasing, mind you, had we made a deal with Father. He was murdered defending the old man. By your whore, no less. The shameless creature even had the boldness to rub it in my face. "

Vulpes had not even attempted to broker a truce with his father-in-law, although he'd given his wife written permission to try, if she wished. Lucius had put Lucilla under house arrest for her trouble and informed her that any further involvement in her husband's treachery would be declared an attempted patricide, a crime beyond all laws of man and nature.

Vulpes couldn't fault old Lucius for that. It was important to maintain discipline in one's household. Indeed, Lucius had been rather indulgent in his choice of punishments, perhaps because Lucilla was his first-born and favoured him in more than just her features.

"I'm aware that you've sustained a loss. It's unfortunate that your sire was not wiser in his choice of allies," he said. "As for the crimes of the slave, she will be punished. I've already placed a substantial bounty on her head and dispatched several squads of assassins to eliminate her. Lest you've forgotten, my eyes are everywhere and they do not blink. My agents have orders to kill the woman and her accomplices at the first opportunity."

That seemed to appease Lucilla somewhat and her mood improved, although this change did little to satisfy Vulpes. He'd forgotten what it was like to live in close proximity with the woman and how she insisted on fussing with his carefully organized space, re-ordering his files, moving his armour and ripping pages out of his books to write her grocery lists.

Not to mention the clumsy eavesdropping – there was something unutterably ridiculous about a former Frumentarius being spied upon by his own wife. It was dreadfully reminiscent of the foul domestic comedies the actors performed in the markets of Phoenix on holidays and it vexed Vulpes to no end.

The resumption of his conjugal rights should have afforded him some greater measure of satisfaction, but it did not. Vulpes had never been fond of performing his duties in a bed surrounded by fertility idols, their stony gazes fixed on him as he ploughed the marital furrow in a workmanlike fashion. Yet it'd been enough for him in the past.

Nowadays, his mind turned to other pleasures and to other betrayals and there was less pleasure to be gleaned from feverishly pumping into his wife while she lay stiffly beneath him, muttering prayers to Juno. Lucilla seemed to believe that petitions to the goddess would increase their chances of conceiving an heir. Vulpes tended to think that Juno was as deaf to her pleas as Mars had been to the last breaths of Caesar.

The only one who seemed to get any entertainment out of the unpleasant situation was Silus, still resolutely unmarried and fucking anything that could be enslaved. As the brother of Caesar and newly minted commander of the Praetorian Guard, the man was in his glory and as incorrigible as ever.

"Having fun with the old ball-and-chain?" he inquired, as they waited for a delegation from Tucson.

Vulpes ignored the question, glumly sipping a chalice of purified water as he lounged upon his throne. His chair had been modified from Lanius' old seat of command, the dimensions scaled down to fit his leaner frame, the brass bullhorns sawn away from the sides and replaced with dogskins and etchings of the golden eye that served as symbol of the Frumentarii.

"What a deal you made there," Silus said. "A deal with Saturn if you ask me. Although the denarius must've sweetened the pot."

In truth, the financial gains had been negligible – a dowry of a few thousand denarius and a villa outside of Phoenix that Vulpes rarely used. It was political connections that he'd wanted and the prestige of a patrician house, but he wasn't about to explain any of that to his oafish, ne'er-do-well brother.

Silus continued, still baiting him. If there was one that he was good at, it was this.

"At least she isn't ugly. Though the family resemblance isn't in her favour. Ever feel like you're fucking Lucius with tits? I guess you're just grateful she doesn't have a beard."

Vulpes hurled the chalice at him. The stone cup struck Silus full in the face with a satisfying thump.

"Mind your tongue. I may have promoted you, brother, but that doesn't mean I can't have you whipped."

Silus rubbed the welt already beginning to swell up beneath his eye. "Well, hail, Caesar. Already the makings of a proper tyrant. Just try not to eat any pinyon nuts, hm?"

Ah, yes, the mighty pinyon nut that slew the Monster of the East. The profligates made up such amusing nonsense. The poison had actually been in Lanius' stew and it'd killed all five of the other officers who'd dined with him.

Vulpes leaned back in his throne. "I'll endeavour to resist the temptation."

He only noticed Lucilla's new jacket after the delegation had gone. Discovering the garment crumpled in a chest, he'd picked it up, inspecting the machine-worn material, the tarnished metal buttons that could only have come from the Pre-War years.

His curiosity overcame his disgust and he gave the jacket a sniff. It smelled of smoke and profligate perfume.

There was little doubt in Vulpes' mind who had given Lucilla the garment but he pressed the jacket close to his face and inhaled the scent again, just to be certain. He breathed in the heady, almost dizzying odour of the perfume, taking it in like a slap to the face.

Six. Incorrigible whore. She thought herself so clever. He would give her a hard lesson when next they met.

Vulpes sliced open the jacket with his knife, finding the sensor tucked inside the lining. When it fell into his hand, he gave a low chuckle, angry at the woman's audacity but also a trifle impressed by it.

He was sitting on his throne, examining the sensor as if it were a jewel beyond price, when Lucilla returned to the tent. Her face was flushed from the heat of the day and she looked more harried than the slaves carrying her purchases or the guards who shadowed her every step, ready to shield her from an assassin's blade.

Vulpes waited until the slaves had put the bags away, before dismissing them and the guards. Foolish as she'd been, it would not do to reprimand his wife before her inferiors.


	25. Under an Orange Coloured Sky

Coyote Tail Ridge jutted from the cliffs overlooking Bitter Springs, a rocky promontory that offered views on both the settlement and the canyon path leading up to the NCR outpost.

Six could see why First Recon had chosen to position themselves here to stake out the Khans, although when Boone had told her the story, she'd initially imagined something much more dramatic – the snipers ranged on either side of the canyon and the Khans threading along the path below, far away and unknowing. In a way, it'd been easier to envision it happening like that, to pretend that the soldiers had never seen their victims' faces. Standing on Coyote Tail Ridge, Six had realized how differently it must have played out.

For one thing, the shooters hadn't been as distant or as high up as she'd believed. Boone had climbed the ridge before her and she'd looked up at him from the path, surprised to find that she could still distinguish his features; she also knew, that, with his sniper's vision, he could make her out as clear as day even without the use of a scope. He'd lifted his hand in greeting as she'd picked her way along the narrow trail and it'd given Six a pang to know that he could see her, just as he'd seen the first of the Khans on that evening, three years ago, when he and the rest of First Recon had opened fire.

Six had brushed it off then, that uncanny feeling, but when she settled in to rest, it'd started to trouble her. She'd hoped to get some sleep, but she was all-too-conscious that Boone was awake, crouched at the edge of the ridge and staring expectantly into the darkness.

Boone wasn't just on the look-out for trouble, as he'd been for so many nights before. She could tell it was more than that. This was a vigil.

He was watching for his punishment. It was hard to know whether he awaited it with hope or with dread.

For a while, they'd talked, if only to pretend that he wasn't waiting and that she wasn't trying to sleep and failing at it. They'd talked about simple things mostly, food being a favoured topic. Six had asked him a lot of questions about California, too, and he'd told her a few stories about living with his aunt and uncle when they were still sharecropping out there, before the Brahmin Barons bought up all the lands for pasture. Six still didn't remember much about the place and wasn't sure it'd do her any good to try, but it sounded alright there. She liked the idea of the ocean, anyway.

Lulled by the sound of his voice, she fell into a light doze, waking, maybe an hour later, at what sounded like a kicked pebble clattering over the ground. In most places, that wouldn't have been enough to rouse her but on the ridge, sounds carried and echoed through the nearby canyon.

She raised her head, figuring it was just Boone re-adjusting his position, but from the way he started moving, she could tell it was something else.

He stooped down and set her pack beside her with a soft thud. "Get up. It's time for you to go."

Six squinted at him, sleep still crusting the corners of her eyes. "What? No. Now can you please inform me what in the hell's going on?"

"It's not your fight," he said. "I want you to go. Take your stuff and head northeast. There's a station up there where you can wait things out."

When Six didn't move, he tore open her bedroll and dragged her to her feet, shoving the pack into her hands. He pointed to the desert. "Go. Now. Six, this is no fucking joke."

She scowled at him, holding the bag stiffly in front of her. He had one hell of a nerve dismissing her like that. To add insult to injury, she wasn't wearing any pants, clothed in only a camisole and a pair of embarrassingly threadbare underwear. If she had her way, she sure as hell wasn't fleeing into the wilderness dressed only in her skivvies.

"Let me get dressed first, will you?"

A gun fired behind them and Boone didn't have time to growl a response. Legionaries swarmed out from behind the hills, some firing on them from the trail, while others raced towards Bitter Springs, intent on raiding the settlement.

Boone dropped to his stomach, pulling her down with him. Six's knees scraped the ground and she hit the dirt hard, gasping for breath.

She wanted to twist around and deck him, even as the bullets whistled overhead, as the shadows started to close in around them. He had no right to treat her like a civilian, to push her away so he could go charging towards death. Goddamn, but she wanted to kiss him too, an urgent, angry kiss, the kind that might've hit as hard as a fist and bruised his lips, sucked the air from his mouth, made him recoil in wounded surprise. She didn't indulge either instinct, just slid out from under his arm, bristling away him.

"I warned you," he said. "Didn't want it to come to this."

"Come to what?" she retorted. "I love killing Legion."

"This isn't an ordinary raid. This is how it's gonna end, Six."

He crept forward, towards the brink of the ridge, propping his rifle up against a nearby rock.

She scoffed at him. "And you've been waiting for it. All this time."

Working her way over to the rock where she'd stashed her clothes, Six rolled onto her back and wriggled into her pants. At least now she'd have more than a little scrap of cotton covering her ass. One had to be glad for small mercies.

Boone's rifle cracked off a shot, although she couldn't see if he'd hit anything.

"I didn't know for certain," he said. "I just...had a feeling. You don't want to be here, there's still time to run."

Six pulled on her leather jacket, dusty and soft as a second skin. She gripped her gun and the metal warmed under her fingers.

"And that's what makes me crazy, Boone. That you actually think I'd do that. After everything we've been through together."

They fought on the ridge, gunfire sparking the night. Everything dissolved into a rush of adrenalin, a drum pounding in Six's ears. She fired on a pair of glowing eyes and heard a mongrel howl as it fell. Glimpsing a pale face illuminated by the flash of the gun, a machete slicing through the darkness, she spun around to confront another enemy, to make another kill. She didn't know mercy anymore. Not with Legion men.

When they'd taken down the first wave of legionaries, they edged down into the settlement below. Legionaries had busted in the doors of the rusted-out trailers, hauling frightened sleepers into the settlement square. When Six arrived, some settlers already lay dead on the ground. By the time she and Boone were done, there were plenty of legionaries sprawled beside them, machetes still clutched in their stiffening fingers.

A steady stream of NCR troops showed up to help, but soon the outpost had no defenders to spare. Shots rang out from inside the canyon and the soldiers charged back to their posts, abandoning the settlement and its wounded civilians.

"Stay here," Boone said. "They could use you."

He was being too pushy for Six's liking, but he was right. She was one of the few people around competent to treat the wounds some of the townspeople had sustained and any NCR surgeons who might be stationed at the outpost had other priorities at the moment.

She gave him a warning look. "Don't you do anything stupid up there."

Boone drew her jacket closed, zipping it up. For a moment, his hands bracketed her shoulders and she realized how safe she felt in his presence, even when everything was blood and chaos. "What happens, happens. Take care of yourself, Six."

He turned, striding away and as much as she would have liked to linger there and watch his figure recede into the darkness, Six knew she was needed in other places. There were wounds to be tended. There was work to be done.

* * *

><p>It was well after dawn when Boone limped back to the settlement, inexplicably alive. Didn't make any sense to him. He'd been so sure he'd come to the end of the line. It'd given him a certain peace, thinking he was going to eat lead in that canyon, where the Khans were buried. Coming out alive and one piece – well, he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little from Column A, a little from Column B. As it stood, he didn't really know what to do with himself.<p>

Six was still working on patients when he came back. She'd set up a makeshift hospital in one of the less damaged trailers.

When Boone barged in, she was doing a surgery. Her hair was tied back and covered in cloth and she had piece of fabric wrapped around her mouth. Her gloved hands were covered in blood.

She'd recruited one of the settlers to be her assistant and he was dressed in a similar get-up. The guy barred his way, shooing him out the door. "You can't be in here."

"Just let her know I'm around," Boone said.

He sat down on the ground out front of the trailer, chugged some water from his flask and lit himself a cigarette while he waited. That'd always been a soldier's life – hurry up and wait. Wait for orders. Wait for back-up. Wait for the target to shift forward a couple of inches, into his sights. Back in the day, he'd been good at being patient, but that was when he'd been at peace with his thoughts.

Took a little while, but at last, the trailer door creaked open and Six came down the concrete stairs, looking exhausted. It was strange, but Boone felt anxious at the sight of her, jittery, with the warm, queasy feeling at the pit of his gut that came from caring too much.

He got up, dusting himself off, and shambled over to her.

"Hey."

"Glad you're back in one piece," she said.

"Something I had to do. Needed to see if it was time. Figured it was. Guess I figured wrong."

"Boone, you really think everything that's happened to you is punishment? For what happened here?"

"There's no other way to explain it. Just wish the punishment would be done with me, so I could be done with it. With all of it."

Her mouth dropped open as if she was going to challenge him on that, but instead she just sighed. "Maybe the punishment now is just living with what you did. And trying to do better."

His throat went dry. It was hard to muster up an answer.

"You think so?"

"Yes. I do. If you want to see all this as a sign, then I think the only way to read it is that the world isn't done with you yet."

To do better - to kill more Legion, to take down more fucking slavers, to be the soldier he should have been instead of the one he'd become. If that was his mission, he'd take it and the pain that went with it. He'd swallow his guilt and his shame and the knowledge of his cowardice, how he'd hoped to die because it would've been easier than bearing up under all the weight of the things he'd done.

A few months ago, the sentence would have felt like too much to endure, but now it felt almost...manageable. As if there was still reason to hope.

"You know, when you showed up in Novac, I had this feeling that I was supposed to go with you. Figured you were the punishment come knocking on my door. Never thought that we'd come this far or that I'd start to -"

Six looked at him expectantly and Boone knew that she'd already filled in the blanks. He was grateful for that. He'd never been good saying that kind of stuff aloud, not even to Carla after they'd married. Words had never been his thing.

She took him in her arms then and he folded her against his chest, his hand stroking the back of her head.

He hadn't trusted anyone like this before. Not his best friend. Not his wife. Manny had been too tough for that kind of honesty and Carla had been too fragile. And he - well, he had been another person back then, a man whose happiness had been built on forgetting, on little omissions and denials, on keeping up illusions, his own, his wife's, his friend's. With Six, he remembered all he was and all he'd been and if that knowledge hurt, it was the kind of pain that reminded him that he still had blood pumping through veins, that he still might have a shred of conscience to cling to.

"Come on. Let's get some shut-eye," she said. "I think we've earned it."

As they trudged back up along the Ridge, he caught her hand and held it. She glanced at him in surprise, but she didn't say a word, just let him walk her to their camp like they were sweethearts coming back from a dance.

He didn't care if it looked funny. He liked the way her fingers laced through his and how every so often, she'd give his hand a little squeeze as if to remind him that she wasn't letting go.

They shared his bedroll, although neither of them was in the mood for anything but sleep. Still, it was comforting to feel her warmth beside him and to know that there was nothing left to hide. He'd told her all of it and yet she didn't despise him for a murderer, didn't condemn him for having for taking part in an act as horrific as anything the Legion had committed.

If once she'd seemed like a part of his punishment, now her presence was the one quiet mercy that might carry him through this life sentence of regret, of atonement for his wrongs. He held her close, thankful for undeserved blessings.

* * *

><p>After the attack on Bitter Springs, Legion assassination squads became almost a way of life for Six, and when it wasn't parties of them swooping down on her camp at night, it was spies lurking around Gomorrah with hold-out weapons and whatever else they could smuggle through the door. In the month before the battle of Hoover Dam, as she worked to consolidate the NCR's forces, there were more than a dozen attempts on Six's life. Her room at Gomorrah often felt like her only refuge and even then, she knew she was never entirely safe, even with Boone sleeping beside her and Rex guarding the door.<p>

The highest bounty was on Six, but Vulpes hadn't stopped there. He'd put out prices on her friends' heads as well and circulated the news throughout the Mojave, so that even mercs, Powder Gangers and Freeside thugs came after them to collect.

The fact that Six had taken down House and engineered the fall of the Fort should have given the would-be assassins pause, but it never deterred the most desperate. No matter how many fell before them, there were always more waiting in the wings, lured on by the promise of denarius and Legion favour.

Six knew that, if this kept up, one day she or one of her friends would falter; already the barrage was wearing them down. Arcade had a broken leg thanks to an ambush near RepConn headquarters and he was still hobbling around Gomorrah on crutches. Veronica had suffered electrical burns from the wreck of her last power-fist, the skin on her right hand and wrist mottled red and pink. Six couldn't even count the number of times Lily and Boone had been cut, punched, gouged, stabbed or knocked flat on their asses, but it was a wonder of modern science that they weren't slowly bleeding to death from the insides.

And then there was Cass.

Cass was drinking at the bar, her boots kicked up on a nearby stool, when Six sidled up to the taps and poured herself a beer. This was part of the new security policy that Boone had instated – everybody on staff was supposed to fix their own drinks and prepare their own food. No exceptions.

Taking another gulp of her drink, Cass eyeballed the crowd of gamblers gathered around the roulette tables. "Sooo...see any fellas worth looking at around this joint?"

Six smiled and shook her head. In fact, she'd seen a couple of men that looked like Cass' type, but she didn't want to egg her friend on in the idea of taking a handsome stranger to bed - at least not when that stranger could be a Legion assassin.

Cass nodded towards a lanky guy wearing a fedora and a crooked grin. "What do you think about him?"

Six shrugged, working to sound blasé although usually she liked her friend's ballsy ways, how she never turned down a drink or a chance at a good time.

"He's alright."

Cass eyed the man hungrily, gunning down the rest of her whiskey.

"He's better than alright. 'Though I guess you only got eyes for Army since the two o' you shacked up. You don't remember what it's like getting lonesome."

It was hard to picture Cass being lonely. She'd never admitted to that kind of vulnerability before, at least not in front of Six.

"Want to tell me about it? We can drown our sorrows?"

That prompted a loud snort from Cass. "Thanks, but no thanks. Right now, talk is just about the last thing I'm looking for."

She tapped the lacquered wood counter of the bar and one of the bartenders set another whiskey down behind her.

Six frowned. "Cass, you're supposed to watch your drinks."

"Aw, hell. Dontcha think that's paranoid? I mean, we know all the folks around here. I can't trust ol' Langley back there to pour me a whiskey, who am I gonna trust?"

Cass might've known all the bartenders by name, but Six didn't. She turned around and looked at "Langley", a burly guy with a handlebar moustache. He grinned and gave her a sarcastic wave, apparently unfazed that the big boss had caught him breaking the rules.

"It's not a good idea," Six said. "Even if you trust the bartenders around here, there's no reason to take the risk. You aren't even keeping an eye on your glass. Somebody could dose it with poison and you wouldn't even know."

Cass gave her a defiant stare, tipped back her hat and took a long chug of her drink.

"See? Didn't knock me down dead. Nothing to worry about. I know the Legion got you running scared, Six, but if you hole up in this joint, all eaten up with suspicion, well then, the bastards have stopped you from living without even a damn bullet. Now, you'll have to excuse me, but I got to inform a certain lucky son-of-a-bitch that he's gonna be putting his boots under my bed tonight."

Drink in hand, she swung her feet down from the stool and swaggered off towards the roulette tables.

Cass didn't show up in the kitchen the next morning for breakfast and nobody saw her in the courtyard or downstairs, on the casino floor. At first, Six figured she was probably just sleeping off last night's booze. In the afternoon, she went to her friend's room to wake her up. When she didn't answer the door, Six opened the suite with the spare key but Cass wasn't there. The sight of her friend's untouched bed made Six concerned, although in a less dangerous time, it hadn't been out-of-the-ordinary for the woman to disappear for a little while, even a couple days sometimes, when she found a saloon or a man to her liking.

"They've probably just got her locked up over in the NCR drunk tank," Boone said. "You'll see. The worst she'll have to do is pay a fine and sleep off her hang-over."

"Or hey, she might've gone out to the sharecropper farms," Veronica suggested. "She does that sometimes when she's drinking whiskey. She likes sleeping it off in the corn fields – says it reminds her of home."

They went out to look for her on the Strip. When they reached Vault 21, there was a perimeter of yellow tape set up around the front of the hotel and a couple of NCR guards standing watch by the gift shop doors.

"What's happened here?" Six asked one of them.

The soldier straightened up, seeming to recognize her.

Since the destruction of the Fort, many of the NCR troops had gone out of their way to show her and her friends respect for what they'd done against the Legion. When she and Boone had visited Camp Golf, they'd practically been mobbed by recruits wanting to congratulate them and shake their hands. Boone had disliked the adulation, finding it embarrassing, but Six still got a kick out of it. When half the Mojave was gunning for her head, it was nice to have a few fans here and there.

"This is an official investigation, ma'am," the guard told her. "Two people died here last night, one of them a staff member from our embassy."

That didn't sound good. Still, people died all the time. On the Strip, in the Wasteland, from murder, from accidents or real peaceful, in their sleep. It didn't mean Cass was involved. It didn't mean... She tried to push the thought out of her head.

"I want names," she said.

"Can't do that, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Can't or won't?"

"I...nothing's official yet. All I can say is – there's a possibility of foul play."

It took some finagling, but she managed to get into the Embassy to talk to Ambassador Crocker. He confirmed her suspicions.

Cass and the man she'd picked up at Gomorrah had been murdered in a room in the Vault, when the room's air filtration systems had been tampered with, carbon monoxide killing them in their sleep. Cass' date had been a low-level diplomat with the NCR and Crocker had initially thought that he had been the killer's main target. When Six showed him the list of Legion bounties that Vulpes had signed off on, the ambassador had been quick to change his mind. NCR investigators were interviewing Sarah, the hotel manager, and other guests in the Vault but as of yet, they had no leads in the crime.

Knowing the slow machinations of NCR bureaucracy, Six suspected the trail would go cold before they'd managed to latch onto a suspect. If she was going to avenge Cass, she'd be better off exacting justice against Vulpes and the Frumentarii, the ones who'd ordered the hit.

It took another two days before Six was able to persuade the coroner to release Cass' body. They put her in a wooden box, with her shotgun and her rattan hat, and bought a little patch of land out by the sharecropper farms to bury her.

The funeral service consisted mostly of tears and toasts to Cass' memory, washed down by whiskey straight from the bottle. The stuff seared the back of Six's throat and burned the pit of her gut, a pain that seemed fitting and necessary. When they were good and drunk, they set up a line of their empty bottles along the fences and took pot-shots in Cass' honour until one of the farmers came charging out and hollered at them for making too much noise.

From then on, there was always an empty chair in the kitchen, an unused stool along the bar, a room that nobody ever visited. The Legion bounty lists had one less name on them. Everyone felt her absence and the warning that came with it. All of them were vulnerable. Any one of them could make a mistake, get a little stir-crazy and forget precautions and the assassins would strike without warning, without mercy. There was nowhere left to hide.


	26. Who's Sorry Now?

General Oliver was a rock-jawed old imposter, a man with an authoritative face and a brain like a soft-boiled egg. He certainly looked the part of the battle-hardened commander except for the uneasiness behind his eyes, the realization that he was leagues out of his depth and forced to call upon a courier of all people to help him shore up his forces.

Boone had dropped a few hints to this effect, so Six wasn't all that surprised, but it still came as a disappointment, another reminder that the NCR wasn't everything it was cracked up to be. She'd been listening to Oliver ramble on about the Republic and valiantly working to stifle a yawn, when the news came that legionaries were attacking the power plant.

Oliver started to sputter out orders to his men, but by that point, Six wasn't listening. She was striding out of the office, a rifle clutched against her chest. If General Oliver had thought Vulpes was going to wait for a conventional, stand-up fight, he was an even bigger dolt than Boone had imagined.

When she got out to the reception room, Boone bolted up out of his chair and fell in step beside her.

"This is it?"

"This is it."

"Glad we're doing this."

Boone said it as though he hadn't been pestering her about going to the Dam for weeks, talking about it the same way a kid might natter on about an upcoming birthday party.

Six had tried to tease him about it once, suggesting that Arcade and the folks back at Old Mormon Fort might need someone to keep an eye on the place, and he'd practically bitten her damn head off. Of course, she'd only been fooling. She'd never intended to keep him back from the big show, not when he'd been there with her from the beginning, when he was the one person who really understood why the Legion had no place in the Mojave, no place in this world except dead and gone.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said.

Once they'd flushed the infiltrators out of the power plant, there was little time to enjoy the victory. Ground troops had massed around the Dam and, already, Six could hear a vertibird propeller slicing through the humid air, a sure sign that the Enclave Remnants were keeping their promise.

This really was it. The battle for the Mojave would be won or lost in a matter of hours and either she'd settle her score with Vulpes or die trying. The realization should have pleased Six, but instead, it just made her feel queasy and regretful.

Boone saw a few of the gang from First Recon working their way up over the ridge and he gave them an awkward salute. Ten of Spades was the only one who seemed to notice. He grinned and waved right back.

"You miss them," Six said.

"Sometimes, yeah. That life – it's the only thing I was ever any good at."

She gave him a wry look. "Oh, I can think of at least one other thing you're good at doing."

With his sunburn, it was hard to tell if she'd managed to make him blush. At the very least, he was

flustered enough not to meet her eyes.

"Not sure I want to be making a career out of that."

"That's not what I was suggesting."

"But you were suggesting something?"

Six was suggesting a lot of things, but it was hard to admit it without feeling like she was...begging. She didn't want Boone to get the idea she was trying to sink her claws into him, trying to make him settle down before he was good and ready. Lately, though, things had been getting downright domestic and the man made a pretty decent breakfast in bed. She could get used to that.

"Just that you have other talents. If you wanted to use them."

"In a new life."

"Why not?"

"Why not."

His hands went her shoulders, stopping her in place. "Look, I don't want to get ahead of myself, but I think we may have something to talk about when this is all over."

Her eyes searched his face. She had a notion what he might be alluding to, but maybe it was just wishful thinking.

"You're being mighty mysterious all of a sudden. We have a few minutes before they start the main offensive. We can hash it out now, if you make it quick."

Boone shook his head. "Not a chance. Can't expect a straight answer out of you when we're headed into a fight like this. Besides, I'm going to need a couple drinks in me first."

He walked into warzones stone-cold sober, but needed liquid courage to get himself through a simple conversation. It figured.

"So you're just going to leave me hanging then? Leave me in suspense, knowing this battle might be the end of me?"

His hands squeezed her shoulders. "It won't. We're both making it through this. Just giving you a little extra motivation to stay alive. Don't do anything stupid."

"Well, thanks," she said, grinning. "So... are you going to kiss me for luck?"

He paused, clearly aware of the other soldiers jostling around them, the rangers huddled around the barricades, his old unit stationed along the ridge. He might not be in the ranks anymore, but that didn't mean he didn't remember the regulations against fraternization, against mixing war and the homefront and bringing up feelings that would complicate things for everyone.

"Yeah," he said at last, sucking in a deep breath. "Think I just might."

He hauled her up against him, his kiss a solemn answer to a playful taunt. If she'd ever doubted that he was afraid, now she knew better, but she also knew that it wasn't fear for himself.

Her hand reached behind his neck, fingers stroking the velvety stubble at the back of his head. It wouldn't do to say anything aloud, to offer him false reassurances or promises that she might not be able to keep. If there was going to be another life, a new life for them both, it would come later, when the flag of the Bear was flying proud over the Mojave.

She reached up, straightening his beret. He submitted to this without complaint, although she had the good sense to realize that he'd accorded her a special favour.

"There. Perfect."

Someone gave a shout and Six spun around, seeing the front ranks advance. Gunfire sounded along the concrete walkway and the Boomers' plane screamed overhead, drowning out the steady roar of the Dam.

She pressed forward through the advancing units of troops until she stood at the vanguard. She'd hoped that Boone would keep back a little, give himself the benefit of some distance for shooting, but he barrelled ahead, following her into the thick of it.

As always, the Legion led with their youngest and rawest soldiers, trying to overwhelm the defenders with sheer numbers.

The legionaries charged towards them, machetes slashing through the air and Six thought she had a handle on the situation – until a blast ripped across the battlefield and she tumbled back, the air around her suddenly roiling with heat.

She rolled forward, onto her knees, testing her legs. Nothing broken, nothing bleeding, although for a second, she was sure that her heart had dropped out of her chest.

It wasn't until she saw the next explosion that she realized what Vulpes had done. These legionaries had bombs strapped to their bodies. All the Legion cared about was rushing them to the frontline, so they could deliver the blasts.

"Get back!" she shouted and she felt someone grab her arm, pulling her behind one of the barricades.

Six had expected to see Boone, but instead, she found herself nearly nose-to-nose with Cannibal Johnson, staring at his bristly grey beard and mouthful of big, yellow choppers.

"Hiya, dearie. Shit like this reminds me why I went out to the caves."

He tore the pin out of a grenade with his teeth and lobbed it at the next wave of legionaries, ducking back into cover just in time to avoid the scatter of shrapnel.

"Thanks," she said, laying down some covering fire for another group of troops. "I owe you one."

"Eh, you don't owe me nothin'. Let's just make sure this is a victory, huh?"

Six stuck with Cannibal until they reached the end of the bridge, then the battlefield widened out and she lost sight of him. In the distance, she could hear the Boomers delivering airstrikes over the Legion camps and it occurred to her that their bombs might hit the wrong places, the wrong people, that they might kill slaves whose only crime was being forced to serve bad masters.

The fighting became more intense as she rounded the hillside and moved through the gates of the Legion encampment. The packs of Legion dogs were little match for platoons of Brotherhood paladins in power armour, but one of the centurions had rigged up a gatling gun and a couple of turrets and those sent everyone scurrying for whatever cover they could find.

Six glimpsed Veronica across the battlefield, but there wasn't time to exchange greetings. Her friend beat down a decanus with her power-fist before diving under a barricade to avoid heavy artillery fire from the Legion fortifications.

Anxious to avoid being pinned down with the Brotherhood, Six circled east. The air strikes had broken down large sections of the Legion's defences and some of the NCR rangers were pressing forward, moving up towards the larger tents housing enemy command. More than anything, that's where Six wanted to be, if only so she could witness the look on Vulpes' face when they battered down his front door.

She pushed ahead, darting between tents, until she reached the platoon of Rangers in the dusty courtyard. The legionaries here were putting up a good resistance, keeping their positions despite all attempts to scatter them, but already she could see that their lines were starting to thin. It looked like a decent gamble and so she advanced.

That was her mistake, one that Six shared with the Rangers. In their enthusiasm, they'd forgotten the close quarters they were fighting in, the possibility that, in cornering and confronting the legionaries, they might leave themselves open to other threats. When Praetorians appeared, flanking them, they had nowhere to run.

It was unmitigated carnage and Six would surely have died amidst the scrum of machetes, flailing arms and hacked bodies if the commander of the Praetorians hadn't hauled her out. In twisting her arms behind her back, he just about wrenched them out of their sockets.

He was a swarthy, broad-shouldered man with lank black hair and a squashed-looking nose. There was something familiar in his face, but if Six had seen him before, she couldn't remember where. From the glint of recognition in his eyes, however, she could tell that he'd recognized her. Most likely from the bounty poster that Vulpes had put out, the one that'd papered half the Mojave.

"Caesar wants this one. Alive."

Praetorian turned to inspect her, his face spattered with the blood of dead Rangers, his eyes large and half-crazed with slaughter.

"And what makes her so special? Just another degenerate slut."

Six hardly noticed the insult. She was too busy staring at the defeated Rangers lying mangled in the dirt. One of them, an older man with a greying moustache, was still alive, despite a wound that'd torn him from hip to sternum. He gasped, his breath stirring the dust, and then a machete struck his face, once, twice, three times, reducing his features to a red pulp.

"Not just any degenerate slut," the commander said. "You're looking at none other than The Degenerate Slut, the famous Courier Six. Anyway, orders are orders. Keep your mind on your fucking work and we won't have any trouble."

He kneed Six in the small of her back but she ground her teeth together, intent on keeping silent. The man smelled musty, like unwashed sheets and sweaty socks and old rations left to bake in the sun.

"So you're the one. Hm. Not bad. I was hoping you'd have bigger tits."

"And I was hoping you wouldn't smell like a goddamn armpit. I guess life is just one big disappointment, huh?"

"Mars' balls! My brother has the worst taste in women."

His brother? He couldn't be... related to Vulpes? The colouring was the same – dark hair, light eyes – but everything else was different, from the mashed-in nose to the men's locker room stench. Vulpes became twitchy at the mere prospect of missing his daily bathes.

The commander started to half-march and half-drag her towards the command tent. Six wriggled in the commander's arms and, kicking at him, managed to strike a blow to his knee that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

The man gave a pained grunt, but his grip on her didn't ease – if anything, he clutched her tighter, one hand grasping her throat, crushing her windpipe.

She choked, the cords of her neck pulsing against his fingers. Just when she thought her veins might burst and she might split open like the skin of a grape, his grip eased and she was able to take a few shallow breaths before he pushed her onto the floor of the tent.

She fell on her hands and knees before Vulpes' throne.

"Thank you, Silus."

Vulpes' voice descended upon her, so cold and magisterial it could have been a sword against her bared neck. She had forgotten its effect upon her, how it made every muscle in her body shrink and contract, how it made her shiver with the memory of his hands upon her, of him thrusting inside her, owning every breath she took, every smothered gasp and moan he drew from her throat.

By contrast, Silus appeared less business-like in his brother's presence – smug, even. "Looking for any help with the execution? This one's already on my bad side."

"That won't be necessary. I assume you've confiscated her weapons?"

"Yes."

"Then she's little threat to me. You may go oversee the defence of the north ridge."

"But -"

"For once, you weren't a disappointment to me. Must you sully that now with unnecessary objections?"

Silus snorted. "Pah, go take a flying fu-..." The rest was muttered under his breath as he sauntered away, but Six could guess at his meaning and she was sure Vulpes could as well. She was surprised that he ignored it, but she supposed that if they were family, the Praetorian received more leeway than most.

Six didn't notice Lucilla until she heard the woman's gloating voice, speaking in high-toned Latin.

"And so the whore returns. Didn't I warn you, slave? Better for you to have fallen into a cazador's nest

than to have offended my husband."

Six raised her gaze slightly to lock eyes with the woman. Lucilla wore imperial finery, a diadem set atop her intricately braided hair, but her face was still marked with bitterness, a deprivation that made her seem older and more jaded than her years.

Six desperately wanted to shoot back a snappy comeback in Latin, but she'd grown rusty at speaking. As it turned out, Vulpes did her work for her and much more effectively.

"Wife, it is past time you were gone."

"What?"

"You heard me. Put away that ridiculous crown. You're to take the precautions we've discussed."

Lucilla gave an indignant laugh. "Surely things are not yet so dire. In any case, I'd rather die here, with you, in my own clothes, than go down to the mire and impersonate some wretch in the name of mere survival. I am still the daughter of Lucius Var -"

Vulpes rose from the imperial chair, levelling a pistol at her head. Six would've killed to be able to glimpse the look on Lucilla's face, but she couldn't afford to glance away from that gun. Not when it could be pointing at her next.

"Go. Now," he said. "If you aren't a worthless fool, you'll get to the slave quarters, put on the dirtiest shift you can find and pray to your gods that the NCR will think you're nothing but an ignorant mute."

Lucilla bared her teeth in a mirthless smile. "You want to be alone with her. That's why you send me away. Do you even plan to kill her or will you just stay in here and fuck her while they tear your army to shreds? You dishonourable craven -"

The pistol fired, the blast reducing Lucilla to a stunned silence. Six couldn't help staring as the woman dabbed at the side of her neck with her hand, her fingers coming back spotted with blood. She couldn't help pitying her. The bullet had only grazed Lucilla's neck, but she looked as though she'd been murdered, as if she'd been cut down by the most grievous betrayal. Six had seen enough of Vulpes' aim to know that the miss was intentional, but Lucilla seemed less certain about it.

Whatever she might have lacked in manners or charity, the woman had guts. Lucilla picked up a vase and hurled it at Vulpes. In her fury, she wasn't much of a shot and it shattered at the foot of the throne.

Lucilla flung off her diadem and dashed out of the tent before her husband could fire another shot. This was probably a wise decision, as Vulpes was not renowned for his patience. On a second attempt, Six suspected he might really shoot her in earnest.

When Lucilla had gone, Vulpes' gaze returned to Six and she almost felt brave enough to meet his eyes. In their time apart, she'd forgotten his unsettling handsomeness, the dissonance between his serene face, that near-perfect veneer of rationality and the terrifying workings of his mind.

"Now what should I do with you, I wonder?"

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" she said. "We have you outnumbered. Even if you kill me, you know it's all over."

"Come now, I suspect you have more imagination than that. I can still see a few ways out of this situation. For either of us. For both of us. It's a question of realigning one's perspective."

Vulpes wanted to talk. Six had trouble discerning what advantage he thought he could gain from it, when he would've been better off killing her and going off to tend to his troops, but if she let him, perhaps he'd talk until the NCR captured what was left of his camp.

It should've been easy enough, to draw him out, to endure his company for another hour or two, yet it terrified Six more than the prospect of fighting him, even of dying at his hand. There was something too intimate about being alone with him again. It felt like a betrayal of Boone somehow.

A stupid idea. It wasn't as if she'd had a choice in being captured. It wasn't as though she'd wanted this, as if she'd arranged to be caught so that she and Vulpes could have this final rendezvous. It'd just been...bad luck. Nothing else.

Instead of looking at Vulpes, Six eyed the pistol, which he'd set down on top of the table, well out of her reach. Perhaps she could maneuver her way towards it, although she knew that, at this distance, he'd probably be able to wrestle her to the ground before she even got off a shot.

Vulpes reached down, clasping her chin in his hand and drawing her face upward so that his face was unavoidable. There was something eerie in his calmness, in the soft, chilly touch of his fingers. Unlike his wife, he did not wear a crown, but then, he'd never needed one.

"You are as I remember you, Six."

"That disappoints you?"

"No. Quite the opposite. I underestimated you. I have always considered myself a capable judge of character and yet I was blind to your true potential."

He'd always had a way of subverting Six's expectations or, at least, twisting his brutality into bizarre sort of decorum. Vulpes might burn your family alive, cut off your head and stick it on a spike, but damned if he wouldn't do it politely, with a thousand explanations for why it was necessary and really all for the best, in the grand scheme of things. When the NCR defeated the Legion, she'd wanted to see him fall apart and instead, he seemed ready to put on a show of good sportsmanship.

"Is this your way of saying 'Congratulations. Job well done'? Because I couldn't give a good goddamn whether you respect me."

"Are you certain about that? So much of what you've done has been show me how mistaken I was, that you are not merely a convenience or a pleasure, but an equal. My equal. I resisted the realization for a long time, much to our detriment."

"That's flattering, Vulpes. After all this, you've finally realized I'm a person, after all. It'd be downright heartwarming if I actually gave a shit."

He gave an indulgent chuckle. "And now I see I've wounded your pride. That wasn't my intention. I only wished to acknowledge that I haven't always come to our relationship with the most enlightened attitude. If I had, it would've spared us both a great deal of trouble. I'll admit, when you killed Caesar in that barbaric fashion, I was somewhat aggrieved at the news."

"You wanted him dead."

"Yes. I required it. But I didn't think it would happen in such an undignified manner."

"You killed Cass. One of your agents locked her in a room and poured fucking carbon monoxide in through the vents."

He covered his mouth with an elegant hand, rubbing his chin as if trying to recall some insignificant detail lost in the mists of time. Six suspected he was trying to conceal a smile.

"I'll admit, it was clever work. I didn't arrange it. Not personally."

"And that's supposed to make a difference."

"Would it make you feel better if I pretended I was sorry?"

"No, because you aren't sorry. You don't regret a thing."

"I do. I regret one thing."

"And that is?"

"I should have understood you."

"If you understood me, you'd know that was the wrong answer."

"Oh, yes, I know you wish me to say that I regret Nipton. That would be a transparent lie. Were it necessary, I'd burn a hundred Niptons. Besides, it's how we met. I can hardly regret our meeting."

"Why not? I regret it everyday."

"You don't. It's shaped you. It's made us both who we've become. And that's why I think we can help one another, Six. We've been bound together all along."

"How in the world do you possibly think I can help you? You want me to put in a good word for you with the NCR? Get them to hang you instead of standing you in front of a firing squad?"

"Let's forget about the NCR and think about who's actually holding all the cards here," he said. "Who made all the alliances, with the Boomers, the Enclave, the Brotherhood, the tribes of New Vegas? You, Six. Do you expect me to believe that you couldn't get on the radio and tell them that circumstances have changed, that you've shifted your allegiance? If you did, I doubt they'd continue to expend their efforts in favour of Kimball, Oliver and their crew of taxmen and bureaucrats."

It was true – the NCR hadn't made many friends in its time in the Mojave. Even those who still believed in democracy weren't always convinced that what Kimball, Oliver and their cronies were offering them really was democracy anymore. Playing errand-girl to Colonel Moore had been a hell of an education in the downside of manifest destiny.

"And what would tempt me to do that? I'm with the NCR and I'm with them to the end. You can torture me all you want. I'm not going to get on the radio and give the troops any orders that don't involve blowing you and the Legion to the other side of Hades."

That just earned a look of amusement from Vulpes. "Nice to see you remember your religious training. There'll be no torture, I assure you. Just a little commonsense. You've built yourself an empire, Six. You did it thinking to kill me, but I'm not the enemy. I'm the man who would give you your triumph."

He clasped one of her hands, holding it prisoner between both of his own as if to warm it. Her brain screamed at her muscles to pull away, but his touch seemed to paralyze her and her limp hand remained wedged between his palms.

"Imagine it," he whispered. "New Vegas restored to all its former glory and more, the center of the greatest civilization on earth. Caesar saw it so, but he'd read all the wrong history books. He thought it would be the new Rome. He was mistaken. A truer model is in Alexandria."

Alexandria. The name was familiar. No doubt it'd appeared in one of Vulpes' hoarded tomes, but she couldn't remember the context. She didn't know why she even cared. He was wasting his breath if he thought she'd ever turn to the Legion. Not for love or money.

Vulpes' hands were marble-pale and smooth, without the familiar knots and cuts and calluses that roughened up Boone's fingers. At the thought of Boone, Six made a feeble effort to tug her hand away, but Vulpes held on, smiling at her all the while, as if he knew that she was only putting on a show of wanting to escape him.

"I suppose you haven't read the story of Marcus Antonius and the woman Cleopatra, the Roman commander and the foreign queen," he said. "Antonius put the might of Rome behind Cleopatra's empire in the East and they shared wealth and power such as the world had never known. It's said they were lovers, as you and I were once, as we might be again. I would put off my wife for you, as Antonius put off his.

"There has never been any great passion between Lucilla and I, whereas you and I – even now, I feel the heat in you, Six. If I peeled back your armour and slid my fingers down those sweet little NCR panties of yours, I know you'd be wet and ready for me. You don't know whether you want me dead or living, hard, and between your thighs."

If he were to touch her, Six knew she wouldn't pass his test. The second he'd started talking about heat, she'd felt a tightness in her stomach, a pulsing warmth inside her that defied logic and morality and any conception she'd ever had of herself as a sensible human being. As horrifying as it was, he could still call up an unbidden lust in her, perhaps because she knew it was wrong to want his hands on her breasts, his silken voice whispering wicked insinuations in her ear.

In stories, they always said the devil was eloquent, but Six was pretty sure that bastard had nothing on Vulpes. _Not for love or money_, she assured herself. _Not for my body. Not for my soul. I'll never join the Legion._

Vulpes seemed to note the panic in her face. Six could only hope he would not guess at its true source.

"Fear not. I don't plan to repeat my rather... impulsive performance in Nipton," he said. "This time, I want you willing. Whether you realize it or not, you are an empress. Come, woman, do not kneel. Stand beside me."

She shook her head. "I'm fine where I am."

He crouched down beside her, his hand caressing her cheek. "We haven't much time, Six. I know I can't win your love in an hour – not after all the misunderstandings that have passed between us. When all this is over, I will devote my attentions to you, to taking in every part of you, those that I have tasted a hundred times and those that I have woefully neglected."

His fingers trailed lightly down her neck, stopping to brush back a damp tendril of hair, before they traced downwards, toying with the zipper of her jacket.

She managed to regain enough self-control to push his hand away. "No. I'll never -"

"You'll never what? Let me touch you?"

He tugged the zipper down an inch, drawing fabric back from skin, as if to put the lie to this claim. His voice was soothing and low, as tender as an open wound.

"Let me love you? It happened before in less favourable circumstances, although you struggled against it. I liked being gentle with you, Six. I didn't think it was in my nature, but you've taught me otherwise. You could teach me so much more. It all depends on you calling off those allies and claiming the empire that is rightfully yours."

"And if I say no?"

"I'd have to respect that. You'd be choosing to make yourself my enemy, when I've promised you my love. I can't deny that there wouldn't be consequences to such a choice, but I wouldn't like them. They'd give me no pleasure."

There might even be some honesty in that. Six suspected that was why Vulpes made such a good liar. He never overestimated his audience's credulity. He had a way of disarming one with moments of baffling truthfulness.

"The Legion is everything I despise. You know that. Why for, even a second, do you think I'd join you?"

"Because the Legion would be ours, Six. We could shape it as we pleased," he said. "There were weaknesses in Caesar's vision – in mine as well, or we would not have reached this impasse. There is room for reform, for compromise, if you wished it."

She laughed. "Reform? Compromise? How about I just let the NCR kill every last one of you?"

"And when the NCR is finished with us, what will they do? You know what they'll do. They'll oppress your allies just as surely as Caesar would have. Perhaps they'll be a bit more subtle about it, but the results will be the same. You're a clever woman. By now, I'm sure you're aware of Bitter Springs."

"And Nipton and Camp Searchlight and the massacre you planned at McCarran. You're wasting your time. I'm not going to betray my people."

"So that's it, then. You worry about the fate of your friends. Rest assured, I won't harm them. Indeed, should we wed and consolidate our powers, they'd have my protection – regardless of their former crimes and iniquities."

From the sour look that passed over his face, she imagined he was thinking of Boone. It was hard to believe that Vulpes would allow Caesar's murderers to unpunished.

"That's very charitable of you. But I think I'll pass. We'll all do just fine under the NCR. No crimes. No iniquities. Just medals and commendations."

"You needn't fear for your sniper. I confess that I'd prefer to make an example of him, but I wouldn't have the man murdered against your wishes. He protected you against my former violence and for that alone, I owe him a debt of gratitude."

One that would surely be repaid with a cross the moment she looked the other way. She felt disgusted with herself for even contemplating what it might be like to be his queen, to lead great armies and rule the cities of the Wasteland. The devil was a tempter, but Vulpes put him to shame.

"You lie so beautifully. It won't save you, but it's nice to see that you haven't lost your touch."

He shook his head, feigning disappointment.

"It isn't a lie. You don't know what this surrender costs me and yet, I would do it to regain you, Six. I've struggled mightily against this weakness. Everything in me rebelled against it, but such is the force of my love for you that I would yield in this and in whatever else you desired."

She laughed. "And if I said I desired nothing more than to see you dead? Would you yield to that? Put a gun to your head and pull the trigger?"

"Is that what you really want? Or would you just like me to flatter you and put the pistol against my temple, so you can have a dramatic little scene? If you want to play that game, I can do it. But let's be clear about the stakes."

"Do it. I want to see how far you're going to play this."

"I suppose I might as well humour you."

He stood, striding over to the table. Grasping the pistol, he pressed it against his temple.

"You know, it would probably be much more effective if I put the barrel in my mouth. Less pretty and far messier, but much more effective. Since you're so eager to see me die."

Sarcastic bastard. He was right, of course. Not that she spent much time thinking about the best ways to commit suicide. When she indulged in dark thoughts, they all revolved around murder. For all her failings, a lack of a self-preservation instinct wasn't one of them.

"In the mouth then."

"Very well. It's good to see that you're taking this seriously."

For a man biting the barrel of his own pistol, he looked remarkably smug.

"Pull the trigger."

Vulpes removed the gun from his mouth for a moment, the weapon still pointed a half-inch from his face.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I'm surprised you don't want to kill me yourself. Or watch the sniper do it. That might be gratifying for you and I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"That's very considerate of you, Vulpes. But I think this will be just fine. Especially since I know you have no intention of going through with it. Pull the trigger."

"As long as you're certain. If we can't negotiate a truce, perhaps it's better this way. I wouldn't have enjoyed killing you and without your help, my situation is rather desperate. Better this than an NCR firing squad."

Six smiled in spite of herself. "You wouldn't make it to a firing squad."

He chuckled. "No, I suppose not. You and your sniper would make sure of that. So, yes. Better to die like a good Roman...and win my argument."

He slid the pistol back into his mouth. She expected him to close his eyes, but they remained open, fixed on her. He pressed back the trigger with his thumbs.

_Click. _

She winced involuntarily, even though he hadn't blown a hole through the back of his head.

The chamber had been empty. Hell, Vulpe had probably known it all along and yet he couldn't think of anything more fun than shining her on in the idea that he was going to shoot himself – for love or rather, for the sake of his grand manipulation.

He frowned, opening the pistol and examining the empty chambers. "Foolish of me. I forgot to reload."

"You knew it was empty."

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. I suppose you'll never know. But I did precisely as you asked, Six. Compare that to the tepid affections of your sniper. He only turned to you in the hopes of forgetting his wife's death and he only turned to her in a vain attempt to forget his own murderous nature. What profligates call 'love' is always cowardice."

"At least murder is something he wants to forget. You – you're proud of it."

"I stand by my actions and claim them. I've never run away from anything I've done. Now tell me, can you expect anything but deceit from a man who can only go on living by deceiving himself? When this war is over, the sniper will abandon you and return to his precious First Recon. You know it as well as I. He'll never know you as I know you. He hasn't the strength of nature. He'd make you a housewife. I'd make you a queen – a goddess."

Six felt a pang like an arrow driven into her chest. Her face burned with recognition and with anger, knowing that even if she could rip the arrow out by the shaft, the sharp metal tip had already splintered inside her and there would be no cutting it out.

"You made me a slave and a whore."

"I did what I'd been taught to do. I was unaware that it might be different."

Outside, she could hear shouts and the sound of gunfire. The main front of the battle was drawing closer. They'd have company soon and while the prospect should have pleased her, it also made her feel a little desperate. Even if she wanted to change her mind, even if he had the words to sway her, there was no time to reconsider.

"Too late, I suppose," he said. "Too late to make it different."

"They're coming. It won't be long now."

As if to confirm this notion, Silus bolted into the tent. He glared down at Six, his dark brows knitting together.

"What the hell? Why isn't she dead? The NCR broke through our line. We've got to retreat."

Vulpes didn't react to his panic. He hardly seemed to register the chaos outside. "No retreat. Give me your sword."

"No! It's my fucking sword."

"If you plan to run, you'd do better with a gun, brother."

Vulpes handed Silus the pistol and Silus grudgingly yielded up the sword.

"Fine. Have the damned sword. Fat lot of good it'll do you. Just be sure to stick that fucking profligate with it, hm? The gods will thank you for it."

"Yes. I suppose it would be the best thing to do. Under the circumstances. Goodbye, Silus. If you must flee, try to avoid being shot in the back. A living coward is better than a dead one."

Silus didn't answer, not even with a curse. He simply gave an unthinking nod and ducked out of the tent.

Maybe he'd run headfirst into a unit of Brotherhood paladins. Or maybe he'd survive, join a roving band of Powder Gangers and be the same murderous brute he'd always been, albeit in a new pair of clothes. Karma had never had the best aim, especially in the Mojave.

Vulpes looked down at the sword almost wistfully, rubbing his thumb along the decorative hilt. The blade glistened with fresh blood. He wiped it clean on the back of his cape.

He crouched down, pressing the tip of the sword against Six's gullet.

She swallowed, tilting her head back, if only to put a little distance between herself and the point of the blade.

"I'm sorry it's come to this. I didn't want it to end this way," he said. "I wonder, Six...did you ever love me?"

Six gave a nervous laugh, still all too conscious of the sword thrust against her neck. Of all the ways one might die, she'd always been most fearful of being sliced open, hacked up. It was irrational, really. Swords, knives, axes – they were bloody, sure, but relatively quick methods, particularly in the hands of a skilled executioner.

"Were you expecting an objective answer to that?"

"Not really."

She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the inevitable. "I'll give you one anyway. A parting gift. The truth is, Vulpes, you're the closest I've ever come to loving a monster."

The blade sliced down along her throat and she couldn't keep herself from whimpering, her heartbeat echoing in the back of her head, her bladder tightening in an ominous manner. _Fuck. _ If there was anything she absolutely refused to do, it was to die pissing herself.

She'd expected a gush of blood, but felt only a thin stream trickling down her chest. He was taking his time, the sadist. Making shallow cuts to tease her.

Vulpes rasped out a chuckle, his weight tipping against her, his forehead bumping up against her shoulder.

Six opened her eyes, pushing him off her. As he fell back, she saw the sword jutting from his stomach, its blade angled up towards his chest.

Vulpes' mouth twitched into a smile and he gave a faint hiss of pain. Blood had already begun to seep through his clothes, clouding the light fabric he wore under his leather armour.

"Such a surprised little profligate."

She rubbed at the scratch on her throat, smearing blood across the collar of her jacket.

"You always went out of your way to surprise me."

"This isn't mercy, Six. Don't mistake this for mercy."

"I won't."

"Good. I'm simply depriving you of your vengeance. I killed your monster."

"Are you expecting a thank-you?"

"It would be courteous of you."

Even whilst bleeding to death, the man was arrogant. It should have galled her, but it was almost...admirable.

"I've never been big on manners."

"I'd settle for a kiss goodbye. I believe that is the going-price for heroes these days."

"And for monsters?" she said softly. "What's the price for monsters?"

He didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he was past caring.

She crawled forward, straddling his thighs and clasping his hands together. Under her touch, his fingers trembled and his palms were clammy with sweat. She took these unsteady hands and set them upon the hilt of the sword, wrapping her own around them.

Vulpes' eyes levelled with hers and though his vision seemed bleary, hazed with suffering, she felt an understanding pass between them. He gave a slow nod and she leaned forward, jabbing the sword in deeper. Her mouth pressed against his, a valediction.

He gasped as she drew back, hot breath buffeting her cheeks, and for a moment, it was as if they were lovers again and he had just climaxed beneath her, as if he would simply roll over, give a last tug of blankets and fall into a stony slumber. Vulpes' face settled into its final stoicism and she knew he was dead.

Six began to weep, although she couldn't understand why and could only despise herself for the catch in her throat and the tears wetting her eyes. She blinked them away and pulled the sword from Vulpes' chest. If she was going to find her way back to the battle and her allies, she'd need a weapon.

Tearing down the Legion banner above Vulpes' throne, Six draped it over his body. She didn't want to have to see his face, at once so mocking and so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

The tent rustled behind her and she spun around, ready to defend herself. "Who's there?"

The voice was unmistakeable, as gravelly as ever, the voice of a man who smoked too many packs a day, drank too much whiskey and had never been big on chatter. If it sounded a little different than usual, it was the added note of worry behind it.

"Six? Six, tell me that's you."

She felt a glimmer of happiness, of pure relief. "It's me, Boone. You okay?"

He pushed into the tent, rifle in hand. His sunglasses had slid down the bridge of his nose, but he seemed too distracted to push them back up. Instead, he crushed her against his chest, heaving an exasperated sigh.

"Where the fuck did you go? Goddamn it, I told you not to do anything stupid."

She resisted the urge to snap back at him. It was true – she would've been wiser to wait for her allies instead of rushing headlong into the fight. It'd been stupid, but then, just this once, she'd been lucky. Luckier than she deserved.

"He's dead, Boone. It's over."

He glanced at Vulpes' corpse covered by the banner and his eyes narrowed behind the tinted frames of his sunglasses.

"You do that?"

"He fell on his own sword. I just helped a little."

"Not talking about that. Were you one who covered him?"

She nodded, sensing that this admission displeased him.

"Why?" he said. "Bastard didn't deserve it."

He ripped back the banner, crumpling it up and tossing it away.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Boone stuffed a piece of Coyote Tobacco Chew into his mouth, pacing as he worked it around in the pocket of his left cheek.

"It's funny."

The way he said it, Six could tell he didn't think it was funny ha-ha.

"What's funny?"

"You tell me you hate him. You tell me you're going to kill him. And then, when it comes down to it, this is what happens. It's just...funny."

"It's over, Boone. He's dead. Whether it was him or me that did it – I don't see how that matters."

Boone kicked Vulpes' body softly, experimentally. When that didn't get a reaction of her, he did it again, harder.

"It matters. It fucking matters. You lied to me. All this time, you lied."

He stomped on the dead man's chest for emphasis, leaving the muddy tread of his boot imprinted on Vulpes' shirt. "Fuck!"

She'd pictured this scene a dozen times before, thinking that it'd make her happy, that the sight of Vulpes' corpse would be enough to free her. Instead, it felt like someone had clamped a slave collar around her throat, screwed it on so tight that she could hardly draw breath.

"Stop it."

"Why? Is he that goddamn precious to you?"

She stared at him, having difficulty reconciling this open rage with the quiet anger he usually kept simmering just under the surface.

"It isn't like that. I'm just...tired of all this. I've had my revenge. It's enough."

"No, it isn't. Not even close to enough."

He kneeled down, heaving Vulpes' body over so that the corpse was face-down in the dirt.

"What are you doing?"

Six wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Going to cut your name into his back."

"He can't feel it, Boone."

"I know. Makes me sad to think about it."

She grabbed his arm before he could pry the knife out of his belt.

"Leave it alone. It's not worth it."

He scowled and spit a mouthful of tobacco on the back of Vulpes' head. In life, Vulpes had murdered men for less. In death, he didn't seem to be concerned by the insult.

The only one it seemed to offend was Six and even she didn't know why it so irritated her. Maybe it was the blatant disrespect. Vulpes had always had such care for his dignity.

Boone kept pacing, his eyes narrowed, hawk-like. "You going to miss him?"

"No."

"I think you are."

He started towards the door, as if intending to leave. Six followed him, disconcerted and angry, wanting nothing more than to wrestle him to ground and slap him hard across the mouth. She wanted to slap some sense into him until he consented to kiss her and hold her and tell her that it would all be alright, that he wasn't going to make up some excuse to run away.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"I'm leaving him alone. Leaving you alone, too. Hope the two of you are real happy together."

"What the hell, Boone? Just because I won't let you desecrate his corpse?"

"No, not just because of that. Because I've got my pride."

She didn't know what he was talking about. She wasn't sure he knew either. Chances were, he was just blurting something out, frustrated with his own inability to articulate his thoughts and irritated that she would demand sense and meaning when all he had was a knot of feelings he couldn't untangle.

"Your pride?"

"I don't like being used. And I sure as hell don't like having to play second-fiddle to some fucking Legion scum."

"That's bloody unfair. What about you, what about -"

He walked out on her before she could bring up all the months he'd spent moping around Gomorrah, treating her like a replacement for Carla. Hypocrite. It was just like him to make victory taste like ashes.

He was probably disappointed that they'd won, terrified at the prospect of having to find something to do with his life other than hunting Legion and being an all-around miserable sack-of-shit. Vulpes had predicted that something would happen like this, that he'd find an excuse to give her up. He'd been a monster, no doubt about it, but he'd also had an uncanny way of being_ right_.

Six rolled Vulpes onto his side, casting a rueful glance at his clear-cut profile, his ashen skin spattered with tobacco and grimy flecks of saliva. She used his cape to wipe the black ooze off his cheek.

Boone wouldn't be the only one who'd want to desecrate his body. There'd be people who'd want to stick Vulpes' head on a pike, to hang his flayed torso from the Dam, to take scraps of him away as souvenirs – a knucklebone, a severed ear, a strip of scalp, whatever they could carry with them. The NCR might pretend it was civilized, but in the end, they liked their trophies just as much as the tribals.

Better to burn him. Place a coin under his tongue. Sever his hand and bury it away from the ashes, to show that he was a suicide. That was how the Romans gave a man to their gods. It would be the last task she'd ever do for him, yet she'd do it as a free woman.

When Six left the tent, the smoke was already beginning to rise.


	27. Lonesome Road

Boone slouched in a deck chair on the motel balcony, listening to the sounds of victory. Loud voices. Drunken whoops and laughter. Beer bottles smashing against the concrete barricades. After that, gunshots – at least he'd thought they were gunshots, until the crowd started to cheer and the sky lit up with tinted smoke and sparks of coloured light.

Fireworks. The NCR was pulling out all the stops.

He could've gone down to the Dam, where all the others had gathered to watch them. Could've but he wasn't gonna. He didn't trust himself to behave in the company of those NCR bigwigs. Six was probably there, the guest of honour, all dolled up for her medal ceremony. Probably best he didn't see her – might've changed his mind.

He'd listened to the ceremony on Mojave Radio instead. The others had been there, Arcade, Veronica, Lily, probably even the mutt and they were all probably pissed at him for getting away, holing up in some roach motel west of the Dam. He had his reasons, but he didn't think he'd be any good at explaining them. Better to just steer clear, let them think it was just crazy old Boone again, being depressed. He probably was crazy, sick in the head, but he could only be what he was.

He was a soldier. He could make a bunk, strike a camp, patrol a perimeter, care for his weapons, shine up his boots to high polish, march ten miles in the blaze of summer, shoot and kill and kill and kill until there was nothing but dead bodies and spent shells at his feet. He could do that shit. It was everything else that was the problem.

Before Hoover Dam, he'd been thinking about another experiment in civilian life. Another shiny gold ring on his finger. Another woman who'd come running to him, looking for escape, mistaking him for shelter.

Some part of him had always known that Carla was settling when she'd settled down with him, that she'd never really been in love with him, least not the way he'd been in love with her. He'd accepted it. Tried to live with it. With Six, he'd wanted something different. He hadn't been willing to live on the scraps of her affection and when it seemed that was all he was going to get, he'd walked. He was going to try his damnedest not to look back.

Better to return to what he knew, what he'd always been good at. He'd have his rifle, his rations, a spotter to watch out for him when his eye was locked to the scope. That was all he'd ever needed. He wasn't made for close combat.

He'd re-enlisted right after the battle, when half the troops were trying to talk their way out of active duty and beat a quick retreat back to California. Always easier to sign your life away to the Army than to prise it back.

In the morning, he'd be marching with First Recon again, on the road back to Forlorn Hope. It'd be good to be back in the old colours, even though he'd never really taken them off.

* * *

><p>Six kneeled over the toilet, her head spinning.<p>

Just when she'd thought it was over, her stomach heaved again and she spewed her guts into the porcelain bowl. Her hands flew to her face, desperately trying to scrape her hair back from her cheeks.

"Fuck. This is just ridiculous."

The smell of vomit alone was enough to make her retch. The sight of it was worse. She flushed the toilet and sat down on the linoleum floor, exhausted.

Six had hoped it was just the flu or maybe those crab-cakes she'd eaten at the victory party. The test she gave herself the next morning said otherwise. A plus sign materialized on the little pink strip. She stared at it, trying to will the extra horizontal line out of existence.

The more she looked at the pregnancy test, the more she despised the people who'd made something so condescending, so insufferably cutesy. _Oh look, a plus sign! You're expecting a little bundle of joy_! It was as if they'd never considered that for some women, the news might be about as welcome as a kick in the teeth.

She went back to New Vegas and spent a few days moping around Gomorrah, chatting up Francine Garrett and contemplating the best place to get an abortion.

The back-alley clinic in Westside was out-of-the-question, little better than a filthy chop-shop. By contrast, the Followers at Old Mormon Fort actually knew their business, but she wasn't ready to have Julie and Arcade knowing hers.

In the end, she made an appointment at the New Vegas Medical Center. Dr. Usanagi's clinic was surprisingly nice, once you got inside and didn't have to look at the heavily barred doors and various other fortifications the staff had put up to keep away marauding Fiends.

Six sat shivering in one of the waiting room chairs, knock-kneed and pigeon-toed. She paged through a tattered stack of Pre-War magazines, trying to ignore the advertisements that featured happy homemakers and apple-cheeked children shilling Fancy Lad Cakes and brands of laundry detergent.

It wasn't the advertisements that finally got to her. No, it was a ratty copy of the Milsurp Review with a photo of a sniper rifle on the cover.

It was a beautiful rifle, with a high-tech scope, an extended barrel and enough ammo capacity to make a grown man shed tears of joy. It was the kind of gun you'd want if you were going to be crouched on a ledge over Cottonwood Cove and you only had one shot, one chance to make it count.

Six stood up, pulled her jacket over her shoulders and started heading for the exit without another word, the image of that gun seared behind her eyeballs. The thought of what he'd used it for and the tiny gravestone in Cottonwood Cove. History wasn't going to repeat itself. Not this time. She didn't have it in her to pull the trigger.

"Ms. O'Shaughnessy?" the secretary called behind her. "Ms. O'Shaughnessy, Dr. Usanagi will see you in just a few minutes!"

Six pushed out the door and kept going, not stopping to rest until she saw the lights of the Strip glittering in the distance, outshining the stars.

The next day, she 'fessed up to Arcade and Veronica. They weren't as surprised about the slip-up as she'd hoped they'd be.

"So which of the sex dungeons are we going to turn into the baby's room?" Veronica said, with an impish smile. "Because, you know, I'm sure we can squeeze a crib in between the flogging booth and the stripper pole."

"As charming as that sounds, I don't think I'm going to be bringing up my kid in a brothel. I think I might sell my share in Gomorrah to the Garretts, if it's okay with you guys. Maybe head out west."

"There are a few Followers' settlements in the northwest, out along the coast," Arcade said. "I'm sure they could use a doctor, if you were interested in getting back into medicine. I could send word if you wanted, let them know you might stopping by?"

Six nodded, her head feeling too heavy for her neck. "That'd be great. Thanks. Might take you up on that."

She hosted a little party at Gomorrah the evening before she left. Half the Strip wound up trooping into the main lounge, either to pay their respects or guzzle down drinks and paw at the dancers. The Followers were there in their lab coats, thick black specs reflecting the lights of the stage as they sipped at glasses of ice water and complained about the difficulties of diplomacy with the NCR.

The King made an appearance, a busty redhead on his arm and Rex trotting along by his side.

"Good to see ya, Miss Six. Sorry to hear you're gonna be leavin' us so soon. A lot of folks in this town will be real blue when they hear the news."

One table away, the White Glove Society sat arrayed in evening wear and opera masks. Every so often, one of them would pick up a piece of silverware, scrutinize it with undisguised disdain then polish it with a napkin. They gave a very eloquent goodbye, but despite the flowery praises, Six could tell they were dying to get out of Gomorrah and return to their champagne flutes and moonlight sonatas.

Even the Chairmen showed up and put on a show of friendliness, although Six knew some of them were still suspicious of her role in Benny's death. However one might feel about their taste in clothes or their wacky jive-talking ways, they definitely knew how to liven up a joint and make a run-down casino feel like the swankiest spot in town.

It was hardest to say goodbye to her friends, those who were still with her and those who were just memories now. All too often, she'd find herself glancing along the bar, looking for Cass, or tilting her head up at the balconies, waiting for Boone to drop a spent cigarette. It was then that she was glad she was leaving Gomorrah. There were too many ghosts here. Too many reminders of what she'd lost in her war with the Legion.

She was still lost in thought, a glass of milk set in front of her instead of her usual mojito, when Arcade eased onto a barstool beside her.

"You know, I'm not sure how you got to be so popular around here," he said. "I mean, killing Benny, killing House...I never thought that was the way to make friends and influence people."

"It's always remarkable what can be accomplished at the end of a gun. Especially when you smile and say please."

"And hey, I'm hardly an expert at social endeavours. I'm a _Follower_. Not actually prom-king material, right here."

Six tipped her glass of milk back and forth, watching the chalky liquid dribble from one side to the other. "If it makes you feel any better, most of them aren't here for the sake of friendship. You get popular mighty quickly when you just happen to be the Strip's leading supplier of booze and whores. I've made more than my share of enemies to make up for it. The Legion. Colonel Moore. The Omertas. Hell, I could head out tomorrow and walk myself right into Boone's scope."

Arcade rolled his eyes. "You don't seriously think he's that crazy. I mean, psychologically damaged? For sure. Petty? Often. Incompetent at using at basic contraception? Clearly. But is he planning to shoot you? No and you know it. So let's not be dramatic, alright?"

Trust Arcade to use logic. It was one of his more useful and infuriating tendencies. "Okay, you're right. I was exaggerating. For effect. I don't think he's going to shoot me. If anything, he's probably more scared of me than I am of him."

"I think the last time I said that about someone, I was talking about a particularly loathsome bloatfly." Arcade speared the olive from his empty martini glass and ate it in one bite. "Seriously, though, have you even considered telling him?"

Six opted to play dumb. "Telling him what? That he's like a particularly loathsome bloatfly?"

"You know what I'm talking about." Arcade shaped a curve in the air over his abdomen. "The, um, fruit of your womb?"

"Even if I wanted to inform the Bloatfly about my delicate condition – which I do not – I don't have the faintest idea how I'd reach him. Should I try smoke signals?"

"Oh, don't give me that excuse. I know where he is, you know where he is, we all know where he is. I'm sure if you talked to General Hsu, he'd tell you where First Recon is stationed."

The thought had occurred to Six, but it'd also become clear to her how embarrassing it would be to have to go to the NCR and wrangle back the father of her child. If she did it, she knew Boone would dutifully pitch in with child support and whatever else she requested. If nothing else, the man was good at following orders. He'd been an addict, an assassin in uniform, a headcase, and a royal pain in the ass, but she knew he didn't want to add 'deadbeat dad' to the growing list of ways Craig Boone had fucked things up.

She'd imagined how it might go. He'd probably try to make things work between them for the child's sake. They'd go see some NCR bureaucrat and fill out all the proper forms so she could collect his pension. There'd be a ring, for appearance's sake, but he'd let her slip it on her own finger. After that, he'd go back to First Recon, returning for awkward visits on the kid's birthdays, never touching her, never taking advantage, wavering between a chivalrous courtesy and sullen resentment. He wouldn't fuck other people, or if he did, he wouldn't let her know about it. He'd be kind enough that she'd never stop loving him and so she'd cling to their child all the more tenaciously, because the kid would be the only real piece of him she'd ever have.

Six didn't want that kind of existence and yet, that's what involving the NCR would compel them to do.

Better to leave Boone alone and do the best she could on her own. Better to remember the time when he'd loved her than to be forced to see him again and to know for certain that he'd stopped.

"I don't see why I need to say anything," she said. "I'm fine for money. I can take care of myself."

"I don't doubt it," Arcade said. "But, speaking from a male perspective, I'm pretty sure I'd want to know if I fathered a child. Which, thankfully, from a biological standpoint, has never been much of an issue for me."

"Ah, yes, the male perspective. Seems to be the first thing every man considers. My perspective is, he left. I'm choosing to have this kid without any help from him – hell, without even knowing where he's hiding his sorry ass. As far as I'm concerned, he's just a sperm donor. That's it. Any rights he had, he checked them at the door."

Arcade adjusted his glasses nervously. "All right, all right. It just seems a little...vindictive. I mean, don't you think your child's going to want a father? Especially if it's a boy. For the most part, I grew up without my father around and it was tough enough, but at least I knew who he was. I don't think it's fair to do that to a kid, not if you don't have to. And you don't have to."

Six set her glass down on the bar with a heavy thud.

"Look, you put up a good fight, okay? But it's my decision and I'm not going to go begging to that asshole, trying to get him back in my life. I've given him lots of chances, but this is one time I'm just not going to bend. The kid will be okay. I'll make sure there are lots of positive male role models. Like, how about Uncle Arcade?"

Arcade gave a nervous chuckle. "Ugh. I guess I roped myself into that one, didn't I? I suppose I'll be making some trips out west. Just make sure the kid is quiet. And clean. And likes to read Marcus Aurelius. I don't appreciate screamers."

"Gannon, I can't promise he'll be reading The Meditations at the age of two. You'll be lucky if he doesn't crap all over you. Just hope and pray that the kid gets my brains and the Bloatfly's brawn. If it goes the other way around, all he'll be reading is the Milsurp Review and the backs of cereal boxes."

Arcade laughed before he had the chance to think better of it. "Ouch. That's cold. Remind me to never break up with _you_."

Six smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't be mad with you, Arcade. See, if you dumped me, at least you'd have a damn good reason. I'd just hope your 'good reason' was handsome. A lady has her vanity, you know."

Her joke _had_ been mean-spirited, one that she never would've considered when she and Boone were together. He'd always been sensitive about being a bit slow on the uptake and she'd tried to reassure him that she respected him, even if long division eluded him and his memories of school mostly involved getting slapped on the wrist with a wooden ruler. She used to think Boone's insecurities were charming and that being a little dim made him that much more honest. She used to be kind to him, but somehow, abandonment had brought out a lot of mean things in her.

She felt bitter and hurt, and it was easier to lay all the blame on him than to contemplate her own emotional infidelity, how she'd wavered between him and Vulpes, looking for security and trust in one corner and danger and excitement in the other. Boone may not have been book-smart and no one was going to mistake him for the brightest bulb on the marquee, but he wasn't dumb and he wasn't blind. She knew that their final argument had been as much about her feelings for him as it'd been about a last kindness to Vulpes. Love and hate had a way of tangling together and it was difficult to pluck the strands apart, to know what came from kindness and what from jealousy, what from gratitude and what from wounded pride.

Six left New Vegas an hour before sunrise, travelling with a group of NCR merchants dealing in water, cloth and brahmin steaks. They thought of her as protection, another guard to add to their half dozen armoured escorts. She thought of them as camouflage. She didn't want to be recognized as the Courier, not anymore. A new land. A new start. Hopefully, this time, she'd be lucky.


	28. Strangers in the Night: Reprise

Five years passed like caravans along the Long 15. Every day melted into the last. The routine was what sustained Craig Boone. The minor details.

Making coffee. Cleaning his sidearm. Shooting the shit with Corporal Betsy. Reminding Ten of Spades to tie the loose lace on his boots. Sharing a cig with Bitter Root. Telling him he's a prick and half-meaning it, even though the kid has grown on him, actually makes him think of Manny a bit.

A few things shifted around, of course. Couldn't help it. The land they marched over became more parched, greener, hotter, colder, rockier, muddier, flatter, more elevated. His feet hurt more or less, depending on the state of his boots, whether his socks were dry or damp, how much distance they had to cover, how much weight he was hauling on his back. Ten of Spades finally became the Jack. Somewhere along the line, Corporal Betsy got herself a steady girlfriend and wound up growing her hair out a bit.

In spite of himself, Boone was promoted. He didn't like the responsibility, but he never managed to screw it up badly enough for them to kick him back down to Corporal.

Routine, though, routine plodded along, unconcerned with the changes. It had a way of connecting the past to the present and the present to the days and months to come. He couldn't look at his red beret or sleep under the stars without thinking of Six, just as he couldn't fry up bacon and eggs or spend a night in a run-down motel without remembering Carla.

Of course, memories of Carla were safer than thoughts about Six. Carla was gone forever, no coming back, no chance of making things right, but also no chance of making them worse. Six was lost only to his stubbornness and the long years of silence like a desert between them.

First Recon received orders to march northwest, towards a Followers' Camp called Santiago del Mar. In recent times, the Followers had been acting up, taking stronger stances against NCR policies on expansion and their treatment of tribals on newly claimed lands. In the south, there'd been protests, a fight in North Waco that'd left ten injured and two dead, although nothing disturbing enough to break the treaty negotiated before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam.

If the NCR wanted them near Santiago del Mar, it was so that they could keep an eye on things, watch out for any signs of insurgency while they claimed to keep the camp safe from Fiends, aggressive tribals and the occasional molerat or deathclaw. They were a symbolic presence. Nothing else.

At least that's what Boone kept reassuring himself, as he crouched on a hill overlooking the encampment, watching the distant white-clad figures of doctors, patients limping through the courtyards, even the occasional child darting from tent to tent.

It was beautiful country in the northwest. The hills bristled with pine trees and ferns grew among the wreckage of long, winding highways. Looking past the old Spanish mission, Boone could see the coast and the grey-green line where the ocean met the sky.

"We should go down to the mission," he said. "Talk to them. Find out what kind of supplies they've got. If they're on the up and up, we got no reason to bother them."

"We've got plenty of reasons," Bitter Root retorted. "I don't like this Follower bullshit. It's like some goddamn cult. Nobody is that nice unless they're compensating for something."

Boone thought of Arcade Gannon and Julie Farkis and all those other eggheads back in Freeside. Sometimes nice really was just...nice. It didn't mean he particularly liked it or that he even understood it, but it was there. It existed, just like deathclaws and taxes.

"I knew some Followers once. Not bad people. Better than most."

"It doesn't take a whole lot to be better than most. Pretty low standard."

It said something depressing about Bitter Root's outlook on life that, of the two of them, Boone was the optimist. At Camp Golf, one of the new recruits had given them the nickname, The Undertakers. It wasn't just because of their kill count.

The next day, there were more orders from NCR Command. Suspiciously specific orders. From the way they were worded, Boone suspected they came from the newly promoted General Moore. They were to go down to Santiago del Mar and confiscate anything that looked suspicious – chemicals, weapons, explosives, anything high-tech, even relatively innocuous items like radiation suits or basic armour. Boone knew the decision wasn't going to go over well. Moore probably knew it too. She was probably _counting_ on it. Boone had been at this work long ago to know how her type thought, how they liked to poke a stick into the cazador's nest every so often, just to see what came out.

In Santiago del Mar, the Followers of the Apocalypse were situated in an old Spanish mission, a red clay building surrounded by tiled courtyards. Half of First Recon was posted at the eastern side of the building, their guns trained on the stained glass windows, while the other half, Boone's half, approached the wrought-iron gates that led into the first of several interconnected courtyards.

When Boone reached the gate, he found it locked. There were two Followers standing just behind the black metal bars and they had laser pistols in their hands.

"First Recon," one of the Followers said. He was a lanky guy with thinning, curly hair and blotchy skin. His voice was already slightly nasal in tone, but it wasn't helped by the fact he was sniffling with allergies. "Your reputation precedes you. We were wondering if you were going to come down here and say hello or if you were just going to snipe at us from the hills. It's good to see that you decided to be sociable."

"We're not out for trouble. We just need to see what you're doing. Check out your supply situation. Routine procedure."

"It might be routine procedure down south, but up here, we like our independence. Ever heard of this little thing called intellectual freedom?"

Bitter Root gives a loud snort, his lips curling with disdain. "Somehow, I'm thinking my sniper rifle is going to trump your 'intellectual freedom'."

The quieter of the two Followers, a blonde woman wearing pink-rimmed glasses, became visibly paler at the threat, but the talkative one wasn't having any of it. Boone wondered if he was trying to show off for the woman.

"You could try that. If you don't mind being court-martialled for murdering civilians. First Recon might've gotten away with Bitter Springs, but we're not Khans and this isn't a disputed territory. We help the people around here and if they find out you slaughtered us for the sake of some ridiculous rivalry with the NCR, they're going to be baying for blood."

Boone was about to answer, when he saw a little kid poke her head around the corner of the chapel.

Normally, he tried not to pay too much attention to kids (it put bad thoughts in his mind – bad reminders), but this one was notable for two things: one, she was wearing a First Recon beret that was much too big for her head; secondly, Boone was positive that it was HIS First Recon beret, the spare one he'd lent to Six in Novac. The gold insignia was pinned on at just the right angle and it had a dent in the metal in precisely the same place.

The little girl grinned and pointed at him or rather, at the beret on his own head, noting the similarity between the two items.

The quieter Follower glanced at the kid, putting on a patient expression. "Sev, where's your mom?"

"Around. She had work, so she said I got to play with Cow-purnia. But Cow-purnia's slow."

She'd barely finished her explanation when 'Cow-purnia' came thundering onto the scene, a heavy-bodied Nightkin wearing a checkered housedress. Her orange hair is set in tight curls around her large purple head. She put Boone in mind of a younger, less addled Lily or a saner, less evil Tabitha, but then all Nightkin kind of looked like to him. Huge, purple, prone to ridiculous accessories, but so terrifyingly strong and so batshit crazy that nobody would dare to laugh.

"THERE you are! Your MOMMY told you to stay in the YARD!"

Most children would've scream at the sight of an eight-foot SuperMutant lumbering towards them, but this didn't seem to faze the kid at all. "I was looking at the hat men."

She tilted her head at the Follower guards. "Gonna let 'em in?"

The appearance of Sev and 'Cow-purnia' seemed to make the Followers feel sheepish. Hard to talk tough when you had a weird little kid on one side of you and her Nightkin babysitter on the other.

"We'll let one in," the male Follower said. He glanced at Bitter Root and shook his head. "Not that one. The reasonable one. With the sunglasses."

Boone had never been referred to as the "reasonable one" before. He wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"You aren't in any position to be setting us conditions," Bitter Root said. He gave Boone a hard nudge in the side. "Don't fucking go in there, man. They're looking to get themselves a hostage."

"I've still got my weapons. I'm alright."

He wasn't scared of the goddamn Followers. What were they going to do, heal him to death? Sure, those laser pistols had a charge on them, but he doubted the guards would be able to shock him more than once before he'd shot them both between the eyes. Besides, they weren't going to try anything, not while the kid was standing right there, _wearing his old beret_.

When they let Boone through the gates, he was hardly thinking about the Followers' supplies. His mind was occupied in trying to sort out how his beret had gotten from Six's knapsack, which he'd last seen at Hoover Dam, to a Followers' camp a couple hundred miles to the west. He could only guess that she'd had sold it, probably to someone at the Old Mormon Fort. The thought of that hurt worse than he'd anticipated. It brought back a familiar ache of disappointment and regret that went with everything related to Six.

"What in the hell's going on? Is this a hospital or a three-ring circus?"

Hearing that voice, Boone knew he'd made a mistake. Six hadn't sold his old beret, at least not at Old Mormon Fort. No, she'd carried it with her all the way to the Northwest, forgotten in the bottom of her pack. Discovering it upon her arrival, she'd tossed it to some kid as a toy, because it meant nothing to her, about as much as he had.

His jaw tightened and his throat clenched up so that the only sound he felt capable of making was a soft hiss through his teeth.

The Follower guards crowded around Six, trying to explain the situation. From their panic, it was easy to see that they were almost as frightened of their boss as they were of First Recon and its sniper rifles.

"Dr. O'Shaughnessy, the First Recon scouts have come down from the hills. They say they need to see our supplies."

"We told them we'd let one in. Just one. A compromise. He's going to report to the rest. He seems reasonable."

It wasn't the adjective Boone would've used to describe himself at that particular moment. His face wouldn't give anything away to these Followers, but Six had learned how to read him. He was sure she'd be able to see how mortified he was.

At last, she broke her silence.

"He isn't reasonable. Never was."

Six didn't appear to share his surprise at their impromptu reunion, but then she'd always been good at making the best of a bad situation.

Whatever else she'd become, she was still a good-looking woman, although she'd gotten a little skinny for his tastes. The last few years had made her rangy and angular, her skin hugging her bones. They say time heals all wounds, but it didn't look like it'd healed hers, any more than it'd made a difference for him. Time, as it turns out, had never been much of a doctor. It was more likely to kick your ass than bandage you up and set you back on your feet.

Six strode over to the little girl and drew her arms around the kid's shoulders.

"So, Corporal Boone, are you going to say something? This is my home. I didn't walk into Camp McCarran - or wherever you First Recon guys are stationed these days - looking to stir up trouble for you."

It annoyed him that she'd address him by rank, as if she barely knew him. Before, it'd been just plain "Boone" or later, when they knew each other better, "Craig". He'd never liked that name, had practically given it up after Carla, but the way Six used to say it had done a lot to reconcile him to it.

"These days, it's Sergeant Boone," he corrected her. "I'm not here for any trouble."

"A promotion. Good for you. What are you here for, Sergeant? I've been watching you and your spotter sneaking around in the hills. You guys are falling off your game. Whatever happened to 'the last thing you'll never see'?"

Trust her to twist that line back around on him.

"If we were here to shoot you, you wouldn't have seen us."

"You pulled quite a disappearing act after the Dam. Guess I shouldn't be questioning your ability to stay out of sight. Anyway, if I thought you were here to shoot me, I'd have shot you first."

She said that without a trace of irony. He can believe it too. She's killed men, in cold blood as well as in the heat of battle. He wouldn't have been the first of them to have gone to bed with her. Probably not the last either.

Six stroked her hand over Sev's hair and Boone suddenly noted the resemblance between them. It had less to do with features and more to do with certain mannerisms – a lifting of the brows, a tilt of the head, a slight quirk of the lips. Mother and daughter? Aunt and niece? Hell, with the Followers and their weird science, the girl could be a clone or some crazy shit like that. Boone guesses at the kid's age and starts counting backward. The timeline doesn't make sense - not unless...

"Who's the kid, Six?"

"_My _kid."

Six dealt him a fierce, tight-lipped smile and the little girl nodded her head in agreement. Two against one. It hardly seemed fair.

"Sev, right? That's her name?"

"Short for 'Seven'. It's a nickname."

"What's her real name?"

"Not really your business, is it?"

He stared at the kid, searching her face for a resemblance to his own. Not much in the eyes or nose (thankfully – he'd never liked his nose) but there was some potential in the narrow lips and the firm line of the jaw, a chin that was surprisingly stubborn for a little girl. The kid had lighter hair than Six, but it was dirty blonde, not an embarrassing red-blonde like his used to be when he was a kid, before he'd wised up and shaved it all off.

The kid's hair was that kind of dark blonde verging onto brown that could turn any colour by the time Seven was actually seven years old. Might even go as dark as that Legion bastard's was, he thought. Another strong candidate in the 'Who's your daddy' sweepstakes.

"It might be my business," Boone said softly. "Never claimed to be smart, Six, but I can do math."

Six stared at him and for a moment, he thought that she was going to break down and confess that it was his kid, that she'd been keeping quiet about it all this time because they'd fought and she just couldn't bring herself to go back to him for help. For a second, he was sure the words were just on the tip of her tongue and he was all ready to forgive her, to look past the fact that she used him, and do what was right, for the kid's sake. In that brief moment, it'd occurred to him just how much he'd loved her and how easy it would be to let those feelings take hold again.

"Her name's Lucretia," Six said. "A good Roman name."

Bad thoughts swarmed him like cazadors. Be relieved, he told himself. _The kid isn't yours. Not your problem._ But he wasn't relieved. In fact, he felt as if she'd just kicked him in the balls.

"No, it's not, Mummy!" Sev protested. "It's Lucy."

Six petted the kid's head, picking a piece of grass out of her tangled hair. "Same thing, honey. One is Latin. One is English."

Boone finally managed to locate his voice again, although it came out strained and angry. "Hmf. Interesting choice."

"When I chose it, I was thinking of her father. I always wondered what he'd think of it."

Boone gave a slight grimace, but didn't offer a reply. What he wanted to say wasn't fit for a little girl's hearing, even if Vulpes' brat wasn't likely to understand what it all meant until many years later.

It'd been worse than he'd ever believed. Six hadn't just wanted Vulpes. She hadn't just entertained guilty thoughts. She'd let him fuck her in his command tent while the Second Battle of Hoover Dam was raging on outside. Maybe more than once. It's not like those Legion pigs probably spent a lot of time on foreplay. She'd let that Legion bastard knock her up and now she was raising up his goddamn Legion spawn, letting it prance around in a First Recon hat for a sick joke. Six even looked proud of it, standing there with her shoulders squared, her eyes defiant, as if daring him to call her out as a traitor, a Legion whore. He wouldn't do it. She'd probably enjoy his scorn, knowing that some part of him still loved her and that the betrayal stabbed him deeper for that.

"But you aren't here to reminisce, are you?" she said. "You're here to see our supplies. Checking us out for the good ol' NCR. They couldn't have sent a more _loyal soldier._"

She turned to the Super-Mutant. "Calpurnia, I'll need to handle this. Would you please take Sev back to the yard?"

"Sure CAN!" Calpurnia roared. "I'll keep a CLOSE EYE on her."

"Thanks."

Six crouched down, scooping her daughter into her arms and pressing a kiss against her cheek. "I'll be back soon, sweetie. Why don't you and Calpurnia make sandcastles?"

"No. Mudpies," Sev corrected her. "Just mudpies. We're making supper."

"Mmm. Sounds delicious. Can't wait to eat 'em all up!"

She tickled the girl's stomach and the kid ran away, shrieking with delight, the Nightkin hot on her heels.

The kid might have had Legion blood, but she looked like any other little girl you might see around a settlement – scrawny, dressed in dusty play-clothes, kind of cute – if you liked children, if seeing them didn't just remind you of things you've lost.

Six's gaze lingered on them as they went, but when the kid disappeared from sight, she frowned and went back to being all business.

Digging into the pocket of her lab coat, Six pulled out a small silver key and dangled it before him. "Come on. I'll show you our stuff."

Six took Boone through their supplies, patiently explaining the purpose behind each chemical, each piece of tech. They sounded innocuous enough, though she could've been bullshitting him. She knew he wasn't exactly a brainiac when it came to science.

Regardless of what the canisters contained, Boone knew that he'd have to confiscate a few, just to have something to report to NCR Command. It should've pleased him, being able to throw a wrench into Six's plans after the way she'd screwed with his head, but it didn't. Even in the brief time he'd spent in the camp, he'd seen that they were doing good work. If Moore didn't like it, if it raised her hackles, it was because these small, self-sufficient settlements made the NCR look ineffectual by comparison. The Followers were out here, winning hearts and minds, while the politicos back in Shady Springs were still bickering over how to carve up the spoils from a five-year-old victory in the Mojave.

Of course, there was one room that Six never opened to him and that was the one he really wanted to inspect. He plodded over to it and turned the door knob, finding it locked.

"What's in here?"

"I think that's the janitor's closet."

Boone may not have been a Follower, but even he wasn't dumb enough to fall for that.

"Looks like a big room for brooms and mops."

"We do a lot of cleaning. We Followers are big on sanitation."

"Sounds boring. Show me anyway."

Six folded her arms over her chest, her breasts pressing together under the threadbare tank top she wore under her lab coat. Boone did his best to ignore it, but it was hard not to notice the single bead of sweat that trickled down her neck, disappearing into her cleavage.

It was getting to be a hot day. Not a real scorcher by Mojave standards, but definitely humid and stifling, the way summer days seemed to go in the Northwest, when it wasn't pissing rain. He plucked his shirt back from his chest, trying to get a little air between the cotton and his damp skin.

"And if I say no?" she said.

"Then you say no. And I go back to my guys and I tell them about it. Wait a couple more days and you'll have fifty more of us at your door and we won't take 'no' for an answer."

She sighed. "You know, I'm really starting to regret handing the Mojave over to the NCR. Stupidest decision I ever made."

Boone scowled at her from behind his sunglasses. She probably would've preferred the Legion, once she and Vulpes' had gotten over the lovers' spat that had triggered nearly a year of petty warfare. Must have been tempting, the idea of going from a slave to a queen. He still wasn't sure why she hadn't betrayed them all at the last minute and brought her forces over to Vulpes' side, once they'd been reunited. Maybe there just hadn't been enough time. They'd been fucking busy in that tent - too busy fucking. The thought of it made him sick to his stomach.

"I don't want to hear it. You made your bed. Now lie in it."

She looked almost amused by that. "You're right. I got into bed with the NCR. Let them screw me over. I always knew they had problems, but I kept hoping something would change. It was a bad gamble."

The knot in his stomach tightens. "The NCR weren't the only ones you got into bed with. Now open the door."

She unlocked it, pushing the door open just enough to admit them both and shutting it quickly behind her. This wasn't just a secret she'd been keeping from the NCR, he realizes. It was a secret that she'd been keeping from her subordinates too.

He glanced around the room, expecting bombs, heavy artillery, maybe the beginnings of a bio-weapon. Instead, they were just a few computers and a weird-looking Securitron, one with a sickly smile plastered across its blocky screen.

"Hiya, Six! You're looking especially authoritative today. Who's your new friend? I'm sure he's someone we can trust, even if he is wearing one of those stupid NCR uniforms! You're always a good judge of character!"

Six rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Yes Man."

"Yes, ma'am! You're right. I'm always talking too much, aren't I? Guess it's just the way I was programmed!"

"Boone, this is Yes Man," Six said. "Seeing the damn thing, maybe you can guess why I lock him in the custodian's closet. Believe it or not, I don't need some crappy heap of nuts and bolts following me around, agreeing with everything I say. "

"Tell me what you really think of me, Doctor," Yes Man said. "Your honesty is always so refreshing."

Boone could understand how this smarmy tin can might get on Six's nerves. It still didn't explain why she'd been so hesitant to let him see the robot. He narrowed his eyes at Yes Man, looking the robot over like he actually knew something about tech when what he was really searching for was an OFF switch or a big red button labelled 'SELF-DESTRUCT'.

"What do you do around here?"

"You're so nice to ask me questions," Yes Man said. "I don't do anything _here_. All of my work is in New Vegas and around the Mojave. I calibrate -"

Six glared at the robot. "Did I say you could talk?"

"You didn't say I couldn't," the robot noted. "But now, I'll just zip my lips. Because I like following your orders, Doctor."

He'd mentioned New Vegas. That was NCR territory, except for the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside. The robot might work for Julie and Arcade, but if so, why was he hidden so far away?

"What's going on, Six? I'm not leaving here without the full story."

"You've gone five years without the full story. I don't see why you should start troubling about it now."

He took off his sunglasses and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, trying not to give into frustration. She wanted to him to lose his cool so that she'll have grounds to call in her guards and boot him out.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you rush to false conclusions. You get ideas stuck in your head and they're the wrong ideas."

"Well, then tell me what I should be thinking. Because right now, I'm seeing a Securitron and a room full of computers and I'm thinking you're trying to sabotage NCR forces. As it happens, I know a lot of guys stationed out on the Strip. I plan on keeping them alive."

Something in her face softened. Looking at her in that moment, he felt as if no time had passed at all and they'd been transported back to the main lounge at Gomorrah. Of course, back then, if they'd been this utterly alone, he would've had pushed her up against a wall, his mouth hard against hers, one hand kneading at her breasts and the other fumbling at his belt. The memory was enough to bring him to half-mast and he shifted his weight uncomfortably, thankful that the uniform khakis were loose in the crotch.

"What about Arcade and Julie?" she said. "Would you like to keep them alive or have they stopped counting?"

"They're not in any danger. If they were, I'd tell you. I wouldn't let the past...get in the way of that."

"They're in danger, Boone. So I am, not that you'd give a damn. As soon as Moore heard I went back to the Followers, she started trying to turn folks against us. I'm sure she's made it sound we're terrorists. We're only terrorists if your idea of terror is helping sick people get better and making sure the settlements have are supplied with clean water and decent food. That's General Moore's idea of terror."

"Look, I don't like her either. If it were up to me, I'd see her court-martialled. But it isn't and I've got orders to confiscate anything suspicious."

"And you always follow orders, don't you? Would never dream of telling those bastards 'no'."

She knew exactly how to hurt him. He'd shown her how, as surely as if he'd drawn out a map and put 'X's over the places where mines were buried.

"That's not fair. I think you better shut up before you piss me off."

"And if I do?" she said. "Then what? You'll give a signal and tell those guys you have positioned by the chapel to open fire? I thought better of you. At one time."

"Don't lie. You always thought I was a fucking patsy. You played me like a grand piano. Hell of a performance."

"Yes, she's a masterful manipulator, isn't she?" Yes Man enthuses. "I wish I could be even half as good at making people do what I wanted. But I'm just a follower - with a small 'f', not a big one. I take orders. I'm just not all that assertive."

Six reeled around, as if suddenly remembering the robot's presence. "Yes Man, power down. Before I shoot your screen out."

"I'm sorry, Doctor. I guess I shouldn't have been eavesdropping on your conversation. Even if it was about me. Powering down...Have a great day, guys!"

The robot's screen flickered off, the smiling face replaced by a dark square radiating dull green light.

Despite the robot's apparent cheerfulness, there was something not quite right about it. Something that Boone found downright creepy. He wondered if Six felt the same way. Maybe she was used to creepy. Maybe she liked it. "Creepy as fuck" had seemed to be her Legion boyfriend's big selling-point with the ladies.

"What's that thing do?" Boone asks.

Her back was still turned to him. She probably liked it better that way, not having to look him in the face. "I didn't lie to you. Maybe I was confused, but I wasn't playing you for a fool."

She sounded sincere and it bothered him. She was a good actress. Probably could've had a career in those moving pictures they made in Shady Sands.

"I don't want to hear it. I don't want your excuses. I asked you a question: what's that thing do?"

She looked at him at last, her eyes wide and reproachful. "You could've been nicer to Sev. You could've smiled at her. She's just a kid, Boone. She didn't ask to be born. She has it hard enough with me for a mother."

Of all the things to say to him. He doesn't understand why she'd even care what he thought of the kid. The girl doesn't belong to him. She's the daughter of a dead man, one who put a sword through his gut five years ago, after starting and losing the war that'd ruined the Legion.

"Why should I play nice with your Legion brat? If you wanted her to get special treatment, you should've stuck with Vulpes. Or would he have made her somebody's slave?"

Six gave him a strange look. "You don't seriously think – Oh, fuck. Really?" She broke into a sharp peal of laughter. "You're an idiot, Craig. A real Class-A moron. I hope and pray that Sev grows up smarter than her father."

He blinked, registering the insult. "So now I'm the father? Back in the courtyard, you said – "

"I said she had a name that was both Roman and English. I said I wondered what her father would think of it. I never said he was Legion. I never said he was dead. And honestly, how in the hell do you think I would've gotten knocked up with Vulpes' child? Was it an immaculate conception?"

"You were in that tent with him..."

"I was in that tent with him for two hours tops, in the middle of a battle. I'd just seen his men hack up a patrol of Rangers with machetes. I wasn't in the mood for romance. I wanted to go home, cry my eyes out and take a fucking shower. Which is exactly what I did after you walked out on me."

"Hmh. You seem to think I had an easy time of it. You were the one smiling at all parties, Six. Not me. "

"You went and had your little tantrum over nothing. Was I supposed to come running after you, trying to make it better? Guess I missed the memo on that one."

It was a good question. He still didn't know what the answer was, whether he'd honestly wanted to be on his own or if some part of him had wanted to her to chase him down and make him feel important.

"I needed time to think."

"You've had five years to think. Is that all you can come up with? Look, even if Vulpes and I been in there, fucking like molerats – which, I stress, NEVER HAPPENED – how likely is it that I'd have his kid? I'll just say it straight out. I don't think Vulpes was getting anyone pregnant – not his wife, not me, not anybody. My guess is that pistol was shooting blanks. And all I can say is thank Mars."

Boone grimaces, unsure what how to respond this sudden flood of information, most of it details he really didn't want to know.

"On the other hand," Six continues, with an almost scholarly detachment, "you and I, we were doing it on the regular. And as you'll surely recall, we weren't always so great about using condoms. You know that. Shit, Craig, it doesn't take a fucking genius."

That...that all made sense. Boone couldn't argue against it. Hell, sometimes when they'd been together, he'd been reckless about birth control just because he'd entertained fantasies of a happy accident. He'd felt like, maybe, if he was lucky, fate would give back a little of what it'd taken away in punishment. And in a strange way, it had. When Carla had told him she was pregnant, he'd been hoping it'd be a girl. Couldn't say why. Probably because a daughter would've been like Carla. Not like him.

"So she's mine. Sev- I mean, Lucy. That's my kid."

"Yeah. I mean, we can do a paternity test if you like, if it's going to give you some peace..."

"I...don't know. I gotta think about that. I want to believe you."

"But you don't."

"I just...why now? Why wait until I show up here to spring this on me? I got to wonder if you're trying to play me, Six. Only this time it's for higher stakes, 'cause you've got that robot and you know the NCR isn't going to like it. Don't know what I'm supposed to make of that."

"You can make what you like of it. I know you like to think the worst of me. So go right ahead."

"Why didn't you tell me before? I mean, that kid's what? Five years old?"

"Four and a half. I had her a few months after I showed up here."

"So you went four and a half years without saying shit-all to me."

"The last time we spoke wasn't encouraging. Besides, I knew what you'd do. You'd try and do the right thing,"

"Damn straight, I would."

"I don't want to be your duty. Especially when you hate my guts. When you think I'd spread my legs for the emperor of the Legion while my own troops were dying outside."

He wasn't sure he believed that anymore. It was possible that she hadn't stooped that low and the worst she'd been guilty of was a bizarre sympathy for her former master. Her tenderness towards the man still gnawed at his guts, but it might be that he'd overreacted to that one undeserved mercy.

"I know you can take care of yourself," he said. "But bringing up a kid on your own – that's tough. You shouldn't have had to do that."

"Tough, I can do. I took two bullets to the head. Having a kid isn't that much harder. And Lucy – well, she's a good kid. Smart. Has a quick eye too. Might be decent with a gun one day. We could use more Followers who can take care of themselves."

Boone had trouble picturing any kid of his growing up to become a Follower. Not that they were so bad, he supposed. He would've preferred a daughter of his to grow up pledging her allegiance to the Republic, picking up the values that went along with life in the NCR. Follower women were a bit too bohemian and free-thinking for his comfort. He'd heard that some of them were out-and-out commies. They did seem to have self-respect though, which was more than he could say for females in a lot of the other factions, where they were talked down to or passed around like NCR $5 bills. Women in the Followers were smart too and Boone admired that, even if it intimidated the hell out of him.

"Now that we're being so straight with each other, are you going to tell me what's going on?" he said. "What's the danger you're so worried about?"

"The NCR's moving in on us. It's not so bad up here, but down south and out east – it's getting tough. The way things are going, Moore's going to find an excuse to violate treaty and then we'll all be Enemies of the State. That's why she sent you down here. You, specifically. She knows we've got history and she figures that if you come storming in, making demands, I'll do something impulsive. Light the fire she's been waiting for. I don't intend to do that. Knowing what you know, I hope that you won't either."

"Alright. I can buy it. But what about Yes Man? You still haven't told me what that thing does."

"It controls the Securitrons in New Vegas. If necessary, it'll keep the NCR from kicking the Followers out of Old Mormon Fort...or worse. I won't activate it unless I know there's trouble. It's a defensive measure. Nowadays, we Followers need every defense we can get. It's my fault. Arcade told me that the Mojave would do better as an independent zone, but I didn't think I was up to the task of running it. I figured the NCR was the lesser of two evils. And well, I thought it'd make you happy..."

This was a twist to the tale. "Make me happy? What the hell, Six. You made a decision about the future of the whole goddamn Mojave and you based it on what was good for me? What are you, thirteen years old?"

She gave a wry little chuckle. "I didn't just base it on that. But the thought _did _occur to me that you'd be a whole lot more well-adjusted if the NCR came out on top. It was just an idea. And frankly, it kind of backfired, what with you dumping me for First Recon..."

"Still trying to wrap my head around this. You had this big, world-changing decision and my sanity was what you were thinking of? That's...I'm not going feel guilty about that. That was your screw-up."

"It was. But it just goes to show you – I'm not the cold manipulator you keep saying I am. If anything, I haven't been dispassionate enough. I let my heart and my gut get in the way of my logic and it's done a lot of harm."

He was oddly touched by that. It was weird to think that she had even considered him at all when making the choice that would affect the Mojave for the next hundred years and longer. She might have been lying about it, but he doubted that. It was so petty that it must be true. And if it was true, then she must have cared about him, at some point, for at least a little while. Nothing but love could be that stupid.

"You've done some good too," he said, giving into the impulse to comfort her. He could never stand to see a woman upset. He'd shot women dead, for good reasons and bad, but in conversation, he still felt the need to be chivalrous. "You saved some lives. At least as many as we killed. You pulled me out of a hole too. Would probably be dead by now, if it weren't for you."

It was true. Alone, he might've racked up a decent score-sheet against the Legion, but eventually they would've caught up to him and hung him from a cross. Before he met her, getting crucified would've been his idea of a good time.

"Laying it on there pretty thick, aren't you?" she said. " An hour ago, you thought I was a lying, traitorous Legion whore. Keep changing opinions like that, you're going to make me dizzy."

"Maybe I haven't been fair to you. Acted like a real bastard when we met. Made all kinds of assumptions. Figured I'd cured myself of that, but it could be I haven't. Never been all that good with trust."

"I know. That isn't new information for me. The question is, are you going to trust me now? Will you keep quiet about what's going on here? The Followers need their defences. I won't give them up. I'm not asking you to lie. I'm just asking you to omit certain ... details."

"No, you're asking me to lie," he said. "And I'm going to do it. Because I owe you. Because I'm not going to lead the charge against you or the Followers...or my daughter. I like the Army fine, but I'm goddamn sick of war. And a long time ago, I loved you. Maybe the feeling was mutual."

"It was."

"Well, then. Something I can feel good about."

Boone decided to believe her. Even if it was too good to be true. Even if she was just speaking in the past tense, drudging up history, not discussing current events.

Six locked up the room, escorting him back along one of the mission's winding corridors.

"You...you can stop by sometimes, if you like. I'm guessing you aren't stationed around here, but if you're ever in the neighbourhood, you're welcome to come by and see Lucy. As you can see, she's already very fond of your hat."

"It's about time I took some leave. I'd like to see her. I'm not much good with kids, probably scare her off, but I'd like to get to know her a little."

They passed through a narrow archway, returning to the bright sunlight of the main courtyard.

"I think you'll like her, Craig. She doesn't scare easy. Comes with having a Nightkin for a nanny."

"Hmn. Gotta admit, that's a one story I'm interested in hearing."

When they arrived back at the gates, she took his hand as if she was going to shake it. Instead, she just gave it a hard squeeze. "Come back then. I'll tell you the whole story. This time, maybe there's no need to leave anything out."

He clasped her hand a second too long. Time had passed, sure, but it hadn't been long enough to erase what'd been there. She still had an effect on him. He wondered if she felt it too or if she was batting her eyelashes at him in the hope of keeping the NCR off her doorstep. Knowing her, it was probably a bit of both.

"I'll come by soon, Six. Soon as I can. In the mean time, say hi to the kid for me, will you? Tell her I'm sorry I was in such a bad mood earlier."

"I will."

Boone met Bitter Root on the other side of the gate. His spotter gave him a look of disgust.

"Stop looking so goddamn happy. You're creeping me out."

He put his hand to his mouth, surprised to find that his lips were stretched thin with a smile. Smiling made his mouth sore. Those weren't muscles he'd used much in the last couple years.

"What'd you see in there?" Bitter Root asked. "Other than sexy librarian types. I never figured you'd go in for that sort of thing. I guess opposites do attract – considering you're dumber than a bag of hammers."

Boone punched him in the shoulder, just hard enough to let him know that he'd crossed a line. "Didn't see shit. Just a bunch of poindexters in lab coats, helping people. The NCR must be hard up for enemies if we're going after a bunch of nerds."

A bunch of nerds, maybe, but they were headed up by Dr. Margaret "Six" O'Shaughnessy, courier, doctor, former resident of a grave in Goodsprings Cemetery, ex-slave, one-time saviour of the Republic. He knew she'd do whatever it took to keep her people safe – to keep their child safe. It was hard not to love that about her. Already, he felt his allegiances shifting.


	29. Somewhere Beyond the Sea

**Somewhere Beyond the Sea**

When it came time to make his report, Boone lied through his goddamn teeth. He'd never lied to a commanding officer before, but in this case, he had to explain why he'd come back empty-handed, without a single confiscated item, in direct defiance of Moore's orders.

According to his version of events, the Followers' camp at Santiago del Mar was a practically a school for NCR propaganda.

"The supervisor there, she's one of us. NCR to the bone. Got a medal back in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam."

"You were with her there, weren't you, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Gorobets said.

"Yeah, I can vouch for her. She's legit. Doesn't run the place like a real Followers' camp. Doesn't tolerate any of that commie bullshit you hear some of them spouting down south."

"Good to know. What were they holding in supplies?"

"Place was clean as a whistle. I wasn't gonna go stealing a bunch of healing powder and Fixer just to make things look good on paper."

Gorobets didn't take the bait. Boone had heard rumours that he and Moore had served together against the Brotherhood. Even if he thought Moore's methods were petty, he wasn't going to say so.

"General Moore felt very strongly that there was something going on there. I think she's going to disappointed to hear this."

"All due respect, sir, but General Moore isn't here. If she saw what I saw, she might've changed her mind."

Boone doubted it, but it was better to pretend that Moore was ill-informed than to say she was outright dangerous and looking for a fight.

He took the leave-time he'd been putting off for the past year and a half, dreading the idea of finding himself at loose ends. Finally, he had somewhere to be, somewhere he was needed. It was better than listlessly wandering the Strip, sleeping more than was good for him and playing the occasional hand of backroom poker, as he'd done on his other leaves.

A week later, when First Recon headed back to McCarran, he was hanging around on the porch of Six's tiny bungalow in Santiago del Mar. Lucy had brought out her miniature tea-set and was inquiring what he wanted to drink.

"Guava juice," he said.

Truthfully, he would've preferred a nice cold beer, but it didn't seem very fatherly to say that to the kid.

"You can't have that," Lucy snapped. "We only have tea."

She lifted her plastic teapot and poured him out a cup of invisible liquid.

Considering even the tea was imaginary, it seemed unfair that he wasn't allowed to have guava juice, but Boone accepted the drink anyway and pretended to take a sip.

The handle of the tea cup was absurdly dainty for his large, calloused fingers. He did his level best to be gentle with it.

"Hmh. Good. Can I have some more?"

Lucy laughed – rather evilly, Boone thought, as if she knew something he didn't.

"Nope. We're all out."

"Well, uh, thanks."

Lucy walked across the porch, bent down and picked up her doll by one of its yellow pigtails. "This is Influenza."

She flung the doll into his lap. "You think she's pretty?"

Boone looked at Influenza. Her name wasn't pretty and neither was she. At one time, she might have been one of those cute Pre-War baby dolls with rosy cheeks and fluttery eyelids, but time and Lucy had definitely left their marks on her. One of her eyelids was broken and hung down over her blue bead eye. Much of her hair had been ripped out of its plastic follicles. The doll's ruffled dress was dusty and tattered, revealing an obscene amount of skin, and much of the colouring had worn off her face.

"Sure. She's pretty."

He'd officially been a dad for less than 2 weeks and already, he was becoming a good liar.

Lucy giggled. "No, she isn't. She got into radiation and now she's a Ghoul."

Boone picked up the doll and pretended it was attacking his neck. The kid thought that was a laugh riot. Another thing he'd learned about parenting: you didn't have to be all that bright to pull off comedy.

"You're my daddy, right?" Lucy said.

He paused, biting his lip, not because he doubted the answer, but because he needed a moment to process all the emotions pushing around inside him like too many brahmin in a coral.

"Yeah. That's me."

"Good," she said. "You're funny."

Lucy grabbed her doll out of his lap and wandered down the steps, into the yard, where Calpurnia is digging in the vegetable garden.

The garden was a new thing. Six had become interested in growing more food in and around the settlement. Boone figured it had to do with her defense worries. If there was ever a siege, they would want to be self-sufficient, to have easy access to food and water so the NCR couldn't starve them out. He told her that he wouldn't let that happen, but both of them knew he was only one soldier, not enough to stop an army.

Six came back from the clinic at four in the afternoon. She looked tired, but she put on a smile when she saw him. He had the sense that she wanted to encourage him to keep coming to see Lucy, even if having him around put her in an awkward position.

Boone watched Six pay Calpurnia her wages for the week, then the Super-Mutant left, trudging toward her own house on the settlement's southside. Six went into the kitchen to start dinner and Boone followed her, intent on finding out what he could do to make himself useful.

"Tell me what to make," he said.

She shooed him away. "Sit down. Relax. You're a guest."

"I've been sitting on my ass all day. Let me cook something."

Six seemed tempted by that offer. She stopped in front of the stove, staring at one of the big black burners, seeming to debate with herself whether it would be okay to let him work or if it would make her a lousy hostess. Finally, her good sense won out.

"Fine. Make one of your famous breakfasts. Sev will like that."

"You know, I can cook more than breakfast," he said. "Over the past couple of years, I've even figured out supper."

"Yeah, but I know your breakfasts are good," Six said, tossing him an apron. "Your suppers are an unknown quantity."

Boone decided to pass on her sarcastic gift of the apron. He went into the fridge and hunted down deathclaw eggs, butter and bacon. Rooting around in the cupboards, he managed to find some bread and jam for toast.

Six poured herself a glass of wine, keeping one eye on Lucy and the other on him in the kitchen.

She and Arcade were the only two Followers that Boone knew who still hit the sauce on occasion. They were the only two Followers he'd really ever been friends with either. Those two things were probably not a coincidence.

When the food was ready, they all sat around the supper table, blinking at each other, as if baffled by how much they looked like a family.

Six was the first to say something. "Well, this looks great. What do you say to your daddy, Lucy?"

Lucy picked up a piece of bacon with her hand and stuffed it into her mouth. "Thank you very much."

"Use your fork," Six told her. "Your hands are probably filthy."

"But, Mummy, it's too hard. I can't get it on the fork."

"Well, just try. That's all I'm asking. Your father made you a nice dinner. It's rude to eat it with your hands."

"Oookay."

A little while after supper, Six put Lucy to bed. Boone sat on the sofa in the livingroom, pretending to read an old history of New Vegas, but really listening to the story Six is reading to Lucy in the other room. It was about Tabitha and Rhonda and their wacky adventures in the dangerous lands of the East. Weird stuff, but Lucy seemed to like it, pestering her for story after story. At last, Six managed to bore her enough to make her fall asleep and she switched out the lights, closing the door behind her.

Six trundled into the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine.

"Thanks for cooking tonight. It was nice of you."

He moved over, making room for her on the sofa. She sat down beside him, stiffly at first, looking anxious, but as she worked at her wine, she began to loosen up.

"Such a long day at the clinic," she said. "I like the work, but some days are hard."

"What happened?"

She lowered her gaze thoughtfully, as if reliving it in her mind. "Not a good topic. You don't want to hear it."

"Wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"I had to do an amputation. When I told the guy, he was...pretty upset. Which is normal. But sad."

He'd seen it. Of course, back when the NCR had been at war with the Legion, some of the recruits had been desperate enough to arrange accidents, figuring it was the only way out of Forlorn Hope that wasn't in a body bag.

"Better to lose a leg than to die."

"An arm, actually," she said. " But yeah, I agree. I think he will too, eventually. It's just not much fun breaking the news."

"No, I guess not. You like it with the Followers? Never thought you'd go back."

"I didn't think I would either. Quite the bunch of goody-two-shoes, right? Still, it's hard to argue with what you know. Revenge wasn't getting me anywhere and Sev – well, Lucy needed someplace stable to grow up. They've got a good school here and the weather's nicer than back east, as long as you don't mind rain."

"After all the years I've spent in the Mojave, rain sounds pretty good, actually."

"Well, stick around then. In a month or two, it'll be non-stop rain. You'll be so wet, you'll think you're a lakelurk."

He wondered if that was an official invitation. Rain wasn't so bad. Small price to pay to be close to his girls – he stopped himself. Six wasn't his. Not in sunshine, not in rain. She was the mother of his kid and she was being nice to him for the sake of their kid.

"I'd like to stick around. Only got a week left before I got to start heading back to McCarran. Doesn't feel like enough."

"No. It doesn't. But you can write. Whatever you write to Lucy, I'll read it to her. It won't be long now, too, until she can read everything herself."

"Yeah. That'd be good. Won't replace being here though."

"I guess we could talk about ways to fix that," Six said, her voice controlled, to reasonable to be believed. "I might be able to get a transfer back to Freeside. Lucy seems to like it here, but I think she'd adjust. Who knows, it might be good for her..."

He couldn't believe she was being so damned nice. He felt so ashamed he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. Instead, he looked at his hands, which were tented together before him, pressed so tightly together that his fingertips were going white.

"No. Stay here. If anyone's going to move, it's me. I'll see if I can get stationed somewhere closer."

"What about First Recon?"

He was going to miss it, no doubt. He'd liked the respect and the extra pay. There was more freedom in the work of a scout and a sniper than in the life of a typical army grunt.

"Those bastards'll be fine without me."

"But your beret..." She sounded amused when she made this objection, as if already well aware of its ridiculousness.

He touched the hat protectively. "I'm keeping the beret. Just may not end up wearing it on the job."

"You're sure about this?"

"Yeah. It's time. Always knew I'd have to move on someday. Just took me a little longer than expected."

"Alright." She sounded surprised, but there was a hint of pleasure in it, as if he'd surpassed her expectations. That encouraged him, made him bolder than he should've been.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

She gestured to the toys scattered around the livingroom. "Does it look like I'm seeing anyone?"

The place was messy, but so far as he could tell, that was normal with a little kid around. Even if Six had lived on a garbage heap, he was sure there'd be guys interested in dating a good-looking doctor, one who had some stories to go with her scars. She was more open to people than he'd ever been. Friends, lovers, enemies, allies – they all just seemed to show up out of the woodwork.

"I know you're busy. Doesn't mean you aren't dating someone."

"This is the closest thing I've had to a date in years."

That might mean something. Might. He wasn't sure he liked her giving him hope like this. It'd hurt if she wound up laughing and taking it all back.

"Same goes for me. Except I don't have the excuse of taking care of a kid."

"Really? But you're stationed so close to the Strip. I figured the girls there would be all over you. You know, big handsome soldier boy and all that..."

"Yeah, whores maybe. And I've never liked the idea of paying for it. Feels dirty."

She'd called him handsome. Was that a hint? Was she saying she still found him attractive? Or was it joke and she was just ribbing him? He'd never been good with subtlety.

Six twisted around so that she could face him better, draping an arm back over the top of the sofa. She acted as if she was making herself comfortable, but he could see tension in her face and even...anticipation. He was sure she knew that he was thinking about kissing her. The fact that she was still on the sofa was a good sign. If she'd stood up and walked into the kitchen, he would've aborted mission.

"You lived in Gomorrah for almost a year," she said. "I would've thought you'd be more relaxed about prostitution."

"Other people can do it if they want. Just not my thing. Besides, when I was living at Gomorrah, I had no reason to be looking at hookers."

"I guess that's reassuring to hear. I miss it there, sometimes, strange as it sounds. I love being a mom and I love my job, but it's different way of being, you know? You don't get to do a lot of living for yourself. Gomorrah – well, that place was all about what people wanted, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. It was."

Boone always been man of simple tastes, of few wants, but he could say without a shadow of a doubt that she topped his list. He shifted a little closer to her, surprised to discover that she was wearing perfume. She smelled like something too good for this earth. It was a different fragrance than the one she used to wear in Gomorrah - softer, more like flowers.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked him.

The idea of a drink sounded nice – he could've used something calm his nerves – but he didn't want to get up and he sure as hell didn't want her to get up, not when he was surrounded by her scent and shed started to open up to him again, in a way she hadn't done since he arrived in Santiago del Mar.

"No, thanks. I'm alright. Was wondering about something. Probably too personal."

She took another gulp of wine. "Personal? I think I can handle it. After all, I guess we've been personal in our time, haven't we? No reason to stop now."

He wondered if she was implying what he thought she was implying or if it was just the wine talking. Or maybe, she'd started tossing back the wine with the purpose of making this easier for herself, so she could blame it on the booze if things didn't work out. There was nothing more confusing than the motivations of women.

"Why aren't you seeing anybody?" he asked. "I mean, I know you've got Lucy. I know you've got a lot going on. But you're not a social fuck-up like me. Isn't any reason why you've got to be on your own."

As soon as he saw her face change, he knew he'd messed up. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned away from him, looking as if he'd just insulted her.

"I didn't realize you were so keen on me dating. Lucy just met her father. I'm not sure she's ready for a stepfather yet. If you're worried about me suing you for child support or something, you can relax, okay?"

That was the last thing he'd been thinking about. He was prepared to give her whatever money she needed. Clean out his bank account, if he had to. Caps were only good for what they could do and taking care of his kid – that was the only thing worth doing.

"I'm not – shit, you think I care about the money? I have five years of pay I've hardly spent and if I hadn't run into you, it probably would've sat in the bank for another five years, doing nothing."

"Then why the curiosity? What does it matter what I do, so long as Lucy's alright?"

"It matters because I want to know if I've even got a shot."

She blinked, eyelashes swooping down to shade her eyes. When they lifted again, her expression was dazed, but not entirely unpromising.

"Maybe. A long shot, but you've always had good aim."

It was a sensible answer. He hadn't expected her to just take him back, without condition.

"That's a lot more than I could've hoped for. I know I messed up. More than once. Wouldn't blame you if you told me that I'd lost my chance for good."

"We're both still here, aren't we? There's still time for second chances. There's still time for...anything."

Boone wrapped his hand around hers, gently prying the stem of wineglass from her fingers. He chugged down the last few drops of wine and set the empty glass on the carpet, before taking her into his arms and kissing her so hard that she gasped against his lips.

"Been thinking about that all week," he said. "Hope that wasn't too fast."

Six gave throaty laugh. "Too fast? Uh, yeah. But you can try to bring me up to speed."

Her eyes closed and her brows lifted in expectation. She tilted her full lips up at him, ready and waiting for another kiss. He didn't leave her hanging for long, wasn't going to try her patience any more than he already had, in five years of obstinacy and silence. Within a few minutes, they were rolling around on the creaky sofa like teenagers, mouths locked together, bodies grinding in rhythm through layers of inconvenient fabric.

"Not here," Six said, panting.

She wriggled out from under him, smoothing down her blouse and straightening the seams of her black pencil skirt, which hugged the curve of her ass in a way that made him want to push her back down onto the carpet and rip off the damn thing as quickly as possible. This was the kind of thinking that led to accidental pregnancies. Of course, it was also the kind of thinking that'd led to Lucy, so it couldn't be all bad.

Nevertheless, he suppressed the urge. The kid was only a room away. Close enough to hear noises and wonder what in the hell they were doing. Being new to this whole 'Dad' thing, he really didn't want to traumatize his daughter during his first couple weeks on the job. There'd be plenty of time for awkwardness later, when she hit puberty. He didn't even want to think about how he'd handle Lucy _dating_. Probably by showing all prospective suitors his extensive gun collection.

Six ushered him into her darkened bedroom, leaning back against the door to ease it shut.

"Lucy may get up sometime during the night. She still has the occasional accident and when it happens, she gets really upset."

"Oh." This was new information. He felt humbled by how little he really knew about his own kid – and well, children in general.

"I'm sorry. Not a very sexy subject."

"It's good to be prepared."

She unbuttoned her blouse and he felt the arousal rising in him again. Her breasts were different now, fuller and rounder, and when he caressed them, she responded almost immediately, giving a soft moan. He pulled up her skirt and thrust a hand into her panties, finding her warm and dripping wet.

He spent time teasing her anyway, knowing he would have to take things slow if he was going to last for any respectable amount of time. It'd been five years, and while he'd frequently availed himself of his hand (trying to focus his thoughts on the nameless women in the pin-ups that circulated around McCarran and the camps, trying not to think of her or of Carla or of anybody real, capable of being loved, of being more than just a fantasy he could crumple up and toss away after he'd come), four fingers and a clumsy thumb were not the same as Six, weren't even in the same ballpark. And goddamn, he did not want to disappoint her, after five years apart, by being a lousy lay who couldn't last more than fifteen minutes.

She reached backwards, opening the top drawer of her dresser. After a few seconds of blind fumbling, her hand returned with an unopened box of condoms.

"I learned my lesson. Always good to be prepared."

"When did you get these?"

"A couple days ago," she said sheepishly. "Seemed like a smart idea."

"Nice to see you were thinking ahead."

Interesting. Three days back, Boone had figured he didn't have a snowball's chance in the Mojave. Meanwhile, Six had been stocking up on supplies, getting ready for the possibility that something like this might happen. He might've wised a bit over the past few years, but he still didn't know shit-all about women.

"Hey, you know how it is. Knock me up once, shame on you. Knock me up twice, shame on me."

He gave a low chuckle, relieved that she could make light of it now. He doubted it'd always been so easy.

Making love to her was in some ways, wonderfully familiar and in other ways, disconcertingly different from what he remembered, what he'd come to expect from her. It wasn't just the changes that time had made in their bodies, but also the way she reacted to things. Five years ago, she'd been more self-conscious of how she'd appeared to him. She'd arranged herself in sexy poses and while it'd definitely turned him on, he'd always had the sense that some part of her was anxious, uncomfortable with being seen and all too aware that he was looking.

These days, she didn't even think about being sexy, and, damn, but he found that sexy - knowing that she was completely present and feeling everything. If anything, he was the one feeling self-conscious, worried that he wasn't going to stack up to his younger self. Army life had kept him in top form, but at 31, he wasn't quite what he'd been at 26, when he'd been popping Buff-outs and working out like a man possessed. If she noticed the difference, she didn't complain, but he was so intent on making her come, that he psyched himself out.

He was hard as a rock, but after nearly an hour of fucking, his cock was sore, his hips ached and he wanted nothing more than to peel off the second condom of the night, wrap her up in his arms and fall asleep – and so quite simply, he faked it, which was surprisingly easy to do with a rubber on. He groaned and panted and writhed around quite convincingly, took off the condom real careful-like, as if he didn't want to spill anything on the sheets, and buried it at the bottom of the wastepaper basket, where Six wouldn't see it.

He crawled back into bed, kissing her forehead. "Hmh. Thanks. That was just what I needed." It wasn't a lie.

Six nuzzled against him, her voice soft and drowsy. "Yeah. Good. Mmm. Sleep now."

It was an order he found easy to obey.

* * *

><p>The next day, Six took the afternoon off work and they walked down to the beach, a narrow inlet surrounded by spiny peninsulas of rock. It wasn't the kind of picture postcard beach that she remembered admiring in Pre-War magazines, but it was nice and relatively safe from unwanted guests like Fiends, ghouls and mutant animals. The worst threats she'd spotted there were a couple of giant blue crabs scuttling along the rocks and they didn't seem to have any appetite for a fight. Between her and Craig, she figured Lucy would be safe.<p>

It was a bit of a walk and Lucy became tired faster than Six had expected. Lucy sat down on the ground and cried and wouldn't budge an inch until her father agreed to lug her around on his back. After that, she was as cheerful as could be, even if she was obviously causing Daddy back problems that would return to haunt him in his old age.

"You okay with her?" Six asked him. "Usually, I bring this little red wagon to pull her around in. I can run back and get it..."

"S'okay," he said, giving a slight grimace as Lucy shifted forward, wrapping her arms around his neck as if she planned to garrote him. "First Recon. Cart my gear all around the Mojave. Used to having weight on my back."

That might be so, but Six doubted he was used that weight fiddling around with his beret and tugging at his ears and taking his sunglasses off his nose, asking questions all the while.

"Daddy?" Lucy piped up.

"Yeah?"

"Why you got this hat?"

"It's an army hat."

"Army? That's shooting things, right?"

"Yeah, you shoot some things. Not all the time though."

"What do you do then?"

"A lot of waiting."

"I don't like waiting. That's boring."

"Then be glad you aren't in the Army. Most of the time, the Army is boring."

"What's it like when it's not boring?"

Six wasn't sure how Boone would answer that, but he fielded the question without any problems at all.

"Then it's hard work. Keeps you busy. Among other things."

"Why you want to be in the Army?"

"I don't know. Guess it's okay for me."

"You like being BORED?"

"Sometimes. Can be better than the alternative."

"Alternative?"

And then Boone had to struggle to define the word 'alternative' for her.

It went on like that all the way to the beach, with Lucy asking innocent questions, unaware that she was poking at barely healed wounds, and Boone giving her patient answers that were almost too honest, too much like what he'd say to another adult.

Six found herself admiring it, although she was slightly jealous over how quickly Lucy had glommed on to her father, treating him like a new and exciting toy, one who was all the more impressive for being large and unsmiling, able to lift things that were too heavy for Six, to pick the kid up and whirl her around by the arms like he was a human carnival ride.

Lucy never got sick of that, whereas she was already tired of hearing her mother urge her to finish her peas and even her enthusiasm for bedtime stories was on the wane when compared to anything that Daddy did (Daddy could dig big holes in the yard! Daddy smoked bad cigarettes! Daddy had funny orange glasses and sometimes he'd let her wear them!). She was glad Lucy and Boone were getting along, but all this daddy talk had a way of making mommies feel a trifle inadequate.

It didn't help that Boone was still a total sucker when it came to kids. Lucy said "Jump" and he asked how high. It was like a little girl was his superior officer. If Six ever left the two of them alone for a week, she was pretty sure Lucy's teeth would be rotted out with candy, the whole house would be full of new toys and Boone would be dead from a heart attack, having allowed Lucy to spend two consecutive days getting carried around on his shoulders, pretending he was a rodeo brahmin.

If she was Boring Mummy by comparison, Six decided she was doing it for their own damn good. And shit, she really needed to figure out how to stop cussing. One slip and you had the kid imitating you for life and getting all the other parents riled up because their child heard it from Lucy and what kind of parent would use that sort of language...

The only nice thing about being the less interesting parent was that Six could sit on the beach and enjoy her book while Lucy proceeded to bury her father in the sand, then stomped on the sand to see if he was really still under there (she heard an 'Oof!' out of Boone that sounded none too healthy...), then poured a bucket of water over him to see if she could make him muddy.

At last, Six decided to put down the novel and decided to intervene. She was enjoying the fact that Boone was getting a little firsthand experience of the rigours of parenting, but things were getting a little cruel and unusual.

"Lucy, stop torturing Daddy."

"No tor-chair. Look, he's a mud-pie."

Boone finally broke his way out of the wet sand and stood up, scraping off his swimming trucks. "It's alright. Going to try out the water anyway."

He marched off towards the surf and Lucy consoled herself by sitting with Mummy and getting her hair braided.

"You like Daddy?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

Sometimes she liked him a little too much. It made her nervous.

"Good. He stays now, right?"

"I don't know. Things for grown-ups get complicated. I know he wants to be with you."

"But he can't. Because he's in the Army and he has do boring stuff and then shoot things."

Six laughed and Lucy folded her arms across her chest, offended at the implication that she hadn't given an accurate description of her father's vocation.

"That's what it's like. He tole me so."

"Alright. Well, that's what it must be like then."

"Tell Daddy he gots to stay. My birthday is coming up."

Lucy's birthday wasn't for another three months.

"I know. You're going to be a big girl. Soon you're going to go to school and everything."

"You tell him. Want him to take me to school. Then nobody will be mean."

"Nobody's going to be mean. The school is very nice."

"If Daddy takes me to school and people are mean, he can beat them up. He's got musculs."

The sad thing was, Six could picture Boone beating someone up at Lucy's behest. Woe betide the bratty little kid who ventured to throw spitballs at his little girl or the impatient teacher who said something snide and made her cry. She decided that she would be the one attending Lucy's parent-teacher conferences.

"Mummy's got muscles too," she said weakly, feeling another pang of envy.

"Not the same. Daddy has scary musculs. Scary eyes. Nobody go mess with Daddy."

Six couldn't argue with this logic. 'Scary eyes' was a pretty apt description for Boone's trademark hundred-yard stare. He was usually more engaged with her and Lucy around, but sometimes, he just got that...expression and she couldn't predict what he was thinking or if he'd just let himself go blank to escape the horror show in his head.

It could be that after you'd see enough, after you'd done enough things that horrified you, your face just naturally settled into that look, regardless of what was going on your head. Sometimes Six wondered if she'd acquired it. She'd seen enough. She'd done enough.

"Well, we'll see," she said. "Maybe Daddy will be able to be here when you go to school."

Six left it at that, hoping that Lucy wouldn't interpret it as a promise. While she didn't doubt that Boone had good intentions, she was worried that he might not come through the way their daughter was hoping he would. She was hardly the best example of sane, rational and well-adjusted motherhood and yet, in comparison to him, she knew she was a pretty safe bet to stick around, to maintain a veneer of normalcy.

She watched Boone cutting a straight path through the waves, his arms chopping at the water. Physically, he was deceptively solid, but in his head, he was...fragile, like a package you always had to carry 'right side up'. If you were a good courier and you carried the package gently, he was a good guy – decent, loyal, big-hearted even if he didn't advertise it with a cheery disposition. If you shook the package around a bit, there would be trouble. Something would break.

She liked having him around, but there was always the chance that something would go wrong and he'd freak out – have flashbacks, pick a fight for no good reason, run off to 'be alone' because people didn't make sense to him. That side of him was hard to love and she worried that it would hurt Lucy even worse than it'd hurt her.

Boone didn't seem to notice her misgivings. He'd enjoyed the beach; he'd enjoyed Lucy; he'd enjoyed the picnic they packed; by all accounts, he'd even enjoyed the sunburn he'd gotten on the top of his head.

After they'd put Lucy to sleep, he'd mixed up drinks for the both of them and turned on the radio. It didn't play the New Vegas and Mojave stations that he'd likely been expecting. In the Northwest, the majority of radio listeners were either Followers, who tended to favour classical music and cool jazz, or tribals obsessed with swing music. A piano concerto crested up through the static, the notes slow and ponderous at first, then cascading downward, tumbling against one another until the orchestra struck up behind them and the music regained its tenuous balance. Six recognized the composer. Rachmaninoff.

Boone narrowed his eyes at the radio, as if suspicious that it was mocking him. "Sounds like the crap they used to play in the Ultra-Luxe. Dinner music for cannibals."

"Not all of them were cannibals," she noted. "Just a couple of bad eggs. Anyway, I'm sure they could've eaten people just as easily listening to Radio Mojave."

"Music aside, I like it here. Like being with you and the kid. I'm not looking forward to having to go back to Vegas, even if it's only temporary."

"We'll miss you too." Her voice rose up at the end, as if it were a question. She wasn't sure she could commit to anything – to missing him, to loving him, to letting him all the way into this new life that she'd built for herself and their daughter without him.

"Will you? Miss me?"

"Lucy's dying to have you walk her to school. She has this idea the other kids will be mean to her and you'll scare them straight. So yeah, I think she's going to miss you."

"Gonna miss her too. But I was wondering about you. You're kind of the wild card in all this."

"The wild card? You make me sound so exciting."

She wasn't wild. She couldn't afford to be. She had to keep things consistent for Lucy. There was no more room for gambles.

"Guess I'm just confused where we stand. Wondering if last night was a fluke or if you really want to make a go at it. Think you know how I feel."

"Actually, that's a place where I could use some clarification."

"Then I'll make it real clear to you. I want you back in my life. If there's some way I can manage that, I'll do what it takes to make it happen. Doesn't matter what."

"Look, what I want is stability for Lucy. And hell, for me too. I know you've been through stuff that makes it difficult to keep your cool sometimes, but I'm not going to have Lucy grow up feeling like she's got to walk on eggshells. And I don't want to worry that one day you're suddenly going to decide that you don't trust me and walk out the door."

He remained silent for a little while, taking this in. Other men might have been angry and protested, but he didn't say a word in his own defense.

"Okay. I see what you mean. What can I do to look like a safer bet?"

She sighed. If only she knew...she wanted him to be able to persuade her.

"I don't know. Just don't have a melt-down on us, I guess."

"You want me to see a shrink?"

Six had never been fond of psychiatry for herself, but she wanted it to work for him. Of course, she would've gone in for just about anything if it'd help him. Self-help. Herbal medicine. Mood crystals.

"I don't know. Maybe. Couldn't hurt."

"Then I'll go. Simple as that. What else? Tell me what else you want. I want to be a family. I want more days like today. Want to wake up to you. Want to walk the kid to school. See her blow out the candles on her birthday cake. All of that."

She knew Boone was serious because he'd strung more than three sentences together at one time. His dogged enthusiasm for this family thing charmed her and damn, but it was hard to let him down. He wasn't a guy who needed more bad news in his life.

"Okay. Okay. You talked me into it. Let's take it one day at a time."

"We should get married," he said.

Since when was that "taking it one day at a time"? More like taking it one lifetime at time.

"Craig, that's the worst proposal I've ever heard."

He looked hurt, but he did his best to hide it, folding his arms over his chest and drawing his chin down like a boxer taking a punch.

"Hmh. Well, we should. Already act like husband and wife. Don't see the use in beating around the bush."

"I'm not going to marry you to make you feel better about having had a kid out of wedlock. Okay? Enough said."

"That's not why I'm saying we should."

"Then why? So I can collect your pension? I don't want your pension. I want you to get a safe job, so we don't even have to think about pensions."

"The pension would be good. You may not like it now, but one day, you may need it. So yeah, that's one reason. But there's other ones, too, alright? I wanted to do it before Hoover Dam. Was going to ask you 'til I lost my head. I want to make things square now. Marrying you – it's the best way I can think of."

It all sounded so practical and perhaps he thought that was what she needed to hear. But it wasn't enough, not if he couldn't feel anything for her beyond a sense of obligation.

"Do you even love me? Or is this just duty talking?"

"I love you, Six. I love Lucy. I'm not saying I deserve a second chance, but if a drowning man sees a rock sticking out of the water, he's gonna make a grab at it. Doesn't matter if he deserves it or not."

It wasn't the most flattering analogy, but she understood what he meant. It didn't mean she wasn't going to take the piss out of him a little, to make him work for it.

"I see. So it's about duty and making up for lost time and not drowning and I'm like a rock. Craig Boone, you've just won the award for most romantic proposal of all time. Let me guess: you want to go down to the registration office and get it done tomorrow."

The dismay in his eyes confirmed that, yes, that'd been exactly what he'd been planning. At least he seemed a little hesitant to admit it, now that she'd made it clear this idea wasn't entirely satisfactory. That implied a certain measure of shame.

"Alright. Yeah. That's what I was hoping for."

"Ha. I knew it. What were you planning to use for rings?"

He frowned. "I don't know. Hadn't figured that out yet."

"It might be a good idea to figure it out. First. Before you propose."

"I can get you something back in Vegas. Just tell me what you want. Big rock, little rock. Gold, silver. Whatever you makes you happy. Better yet write it out. I don't know a whole lot about this stuff. Will lessen the chance of me screwing it up."

"I'll bet Carla never let you get away with this."

"Look, I wasn't all that good at this stuff with her either. Used to cook for her when she was feeling low. Did the chores 'cause she was never in the mood. Gave her attention. Was drunk when I married her, so I doubt the proposal was much better. So don't go thinking you're getting gypped out of any hidden depths of romance. If you tell me what to do, I'll do it. If you don't, I'm just gonna be confused."

"I guess that's straightforward enough," she said. "I want you to go back to First Recon, do what you have to do, and get yourself back here. If you're still fixing on get married, buy us a pair of matching rings. Plain or fancy, that's your choice, just nothing from a pawn shop, nothing with any bad history on it. My finger's a size 6. Might as well get yourself fitted for a suit too, while you're at it. Lucy and I should be fine for dresses."

He took her hand, pressing his lips to her fingers then kissing her firmly on the lips as if to seal the deal.

"You aren't going to regret this, Six."

"I never could regret anything to do with you. Maybe that makes me a fool, but I'm not going to wise up at this late hour."


	30. Somewhere Beyond the Shore

A few days later, they said their goodbyes. Lucy's were tearful and it stabbed at Boone's insides. Six was a lot more restrained, probably for the sake of the kid, but every so often, he caught her dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Boone felt anxious to be gone and back again. Didn't like leaving them alone in that settlement, even if they had been there safe and sound for the last near-on five years without his knowledge. He had the sense that his knowing about them and more importantly, his loving them, put them in danger. Would be just like fate to play a trick, a dirty hand, and have them snatched back out of his reach.

Upon his arrival at McCarran, Boone applied for a transfer to Sacramento Springs, the camp closest to Santiago del Mar. When they turned that down, he requested an honourable discharge. He'd pulled three tours of duty, not even counting the ones he'd done the first time around, before leaving for Novac. It wasn't unreasonable.

Word got around the base. It was inevitable that folks would start ribbing him. Bitter Root was so pissed off about it, he wouldn't talk to him unless he had to and then it was just the bare minimum. One word demands. Questions levelled at him in a flat voice. Passive-aggressive shit like 'accidentally' spilling water all over Boone's gear or disappearing in the middle of a debriefing and not returning 'til it was over. Boone couldn't even complain about it to Major Dhatri because he needed the guy's good word for his discharge and everybody knew Bitter Root was practically Dhatri's adopted son.

Corporal Betsy was probably the worst for razzing him.

"You're back with that Six woman, right? Goddamn, Boone. Don't know how an ugly motherfucker like you gets to go home to a fine piece of ass like that. More evidence the world ain't fair."

"Hey, that's the mother of my kid. Show some respect."

He knew she was just doing it to bug him and 'cause it made Jack o' Spades crack up every time. Betty had a girl of her own back in Vegas, one of them fancy showgirls, and she never shut up about her, even if the official NCR line was 'don't ask, don't tell', with a heavy emphasis on the 'don't tell' part of the equation. She had pictures of the broad taped up all over the inside of her footlocker and it didn't take much encouragement for her to start passing them around, even the ones that were clearly meant to be private.

"I'm showin' Six plenty of respect," Betty said. "You want me to act like she isn't a sweet bit of trim?"

"C-c-careful now, B-bets," Jack cut in. "You're m-making him embarrassed."

"I want you both just to shut up," Boone said. "Just don't talk about it, alright? Goddamn, but I'm glad I'm getting out here. Sick to death of you jokers."

That wasn't true, not entirely. While he knew it was time to go, it was hard to give up First Recon and all the memories that came with it. He found himself thinking about Manny more than he had in years, wishing he'd stuck around the funeral the townspeople had held for him out in Novac. He'd been in the army since the day that he'd realized he could lie about his age on a recruitment form. Spent most of his life in uniform. Nowadays, when he felt the urge to lie about his age, the numbers went in the opposite direction.

When Major Dhatri called him into his tent, the man was frowning under his beard, which didn't bode well.

"Sorry, Sergeant. Just received word back from High Command. We still need you, at least for another couple months. They have another a big offensive planned out East and there've been stirrings of trouble here in the Mojave. Brotherhood. Followers. The usual. We can't spare you yet."

"Look, I can't do another couple of months. If I'm here now, it's because I've got no choice in the matter. Another couple of months...look, I got a kid. I can't be away for that long."

"There're a lot of soldiers with families, Boone. I know you've got some special circumstances, but they aren't that special. Not when we need manpower."

"My wife – I mean, the woman I'm going to marry – she's a war hero. General Oliver pinned the medal on her jacket himself. Doesn't that mean something?"

"If Oliver were still in charge, maybe it would. But they've put him to pasture now and as I hear it, your Courier Six doesn't get along with General Moore. Even if High Command cared – and they don't – nobody's going to be inclined to do you any special favours."

It like there was a vein swelling behind his right eye. It made him twitchy. "This is fucking ridiculous."

As soon as he'd blurted it out, Boone regretted opening his mouth. Dhatri was an understanding guy, but he didn't take shit from anybody, especially not subordinates.

"Watch it, Sergeant. That's not the tone you want to use with me. Even if I agree."

"Sorry, sir. It's just...I been doing this for a long time. I like to think I've always been a decent soldier. Doesn't seem right."

"Look, my advice to you is, stick it out. Wait another couple of months and let your number go through the lottery. See what comes up. Even if you're out of luck, you can just ride out this tour. Get yourself married and go home when you're on leave. Your woman back home may be a civilian, but she's seen enough of army life to know how it goes."

It was a fair response. Boone could how other guys might be able to live with that. He just...couldn't. It wasn't in him.

"And how about my kid? Don't know how I'm supposed to explain it. She was bawling her eyes out when I left. If I stick around here much longer, I don't know what she's going to think."

"Again, I'm sorry, Sergeant, but you signed on for this. You didn't have to re-enlist."

Dhatri went back to sorting through the papers on his desk, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

"Fine. If that's how it's got to be," Boone said. "Guess I'll figure something out. Anyway, thanks. For breaking it gentle-like. Know it wasn't your call."

"Not a problem, Sergeant. Sympathize with your situation."

Boone straightened his spine, clicked his heels together and offered up a more serious salute than he had in a long time. "Sir."

"Dismissed, Sergeant."

Dismissed, but not discharged. The thought was enough to drive him squirrelly. Time was, he would've liked nothing better than to get shipped out East to fight the tail end of the Legion or to get sent down South to keep the Brotherhood in line. He'd never been so crazy about going after Followers, but it was worse now, when his family with them.

Packed up his stuff – the rings, the new suit he'd bought on the Strip, a couple souvenirs of First Recon he couldn't live without. When he walked out the front gates of McCarran, he ran into one of the new recruits, a kid he'd vetted for a chance at First Recon.

"Hey, Sergeant." The kid gave him a half-assed salute, knowing Boone wasn't all that big on rank, still liked to think of himself as an average grunt. "Where you off to?"

"Just going out for a smoke."

As soon as Boone said it, he realized his mistake. He was carrying too much shit around to just be heading out for a cigarette or two. The kid looked at him funny, noting the gear on his back, but he didn't say anything about it. "Okay. Have a good one, Sir."

"Thanks."

It took him another two weeks to walk back to Santiago del Mar. At last, he went trudging up the steps to Six's house and knocked on the door. It was getting to be about evening and with any luck, she and Lucy were at home, probably just finishing their supper. The thought of a home-cooked meal warmed him and made his stomach complain. He'd been eating mostly hard tack and cans of Cram, typical rations for desert patrols.

Six didn't answer right away and so he straightened up the flowers he'd picked off the side of the highway. They were yellow, with black in the middle, not exactly a dozen roses, but he figured she would appreciate the effort. He'd wrecked some of the petals as he'd walked along with them and a couple of the taller ones were starting to wilt.

The door peeled open and there she was, wearing a simple house dress. The kerchief tied around her head seemed to suggest she'd been cleaning.

"Craig. Sorry. I wasn't...expecting you." She tugged the kerchief off her head. "The house is a mess..."

"Of course, it is. You've been working."

He handed her the flowers and she looked at them in disbelief.

"I know it isn't the prettiest bouquet in the world," he explained. "But I, uh, tried."

"It's lovely." Six stuck her nose into the bouquet and wound up sneezing.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Lucy came barrelling out from behind her mother and grabbed his pant leg. "You back!"

He crouched down and hugged the kid. He'd never done that before and it felt good. "Yep. Not going anywhere."

"Are they transferring you somewhere nearby?" Six asked.

"Uh, not exactly."

"What's that mean?"

"I applied for an honourable discharge. Didn't get it. I had to arrange my own transfer and it...wasn't so honourable."

"Craig...you deserted?"

"I guess that's what they'll call it."

Six looked like she was mightily tempted to swear. She clamped a hand down over her mouth until the urge passed.

"Why did you do that? We could've waited. You've given enough years to that unit. A few more months wouldn't be such a big deal."

"I needed to be here. Needed to make sure...you guys are okay."

He could see her reminding herself to take a breath, to take everything one step at a time. She cradled the flowers between her hands, careful not to knock off any more of the petals.

"I get it. C'mon in. You must've had a long trip. We'll figure out a way around this. I still have a few friends in high places. I'll write General Hsu and see what can be done." She sighed just thinking about it. He knew she didn't like to go asking anyone for favours, especially not the NCR. "They should've let you go. You've given enough."

"That was my thinking. Figured they'd cut me a little slack, but I guess there's none to give. Forces are stretched pretty thin out there."

"Are they?" she said. "Good news. Maybe they can go back to fighting Fiends and the Legion and stop picking fights with every Follower they see."

They set off for the registry office the next morning, a little building 5 miles south in the settlement of Dorado. Boone wore his new suit. Six had stated upfront that she would not be wearing white unless she was in her lab coat, seeing as she was a legitimate doctor and a very unconvincing virgin.

"Let's face it, I'm not fooling anyone in _that_ regard," she said. "Even if I wanted to."

Six wound up wearing a dress that Boone hadn't seen before, navy blue with white polka dots, cinched at the waist. She looked gorgeous in it and exactly like herself, and once the honeymoon rolled around, he thought it'd look even better crumpled on the floor.

The length of the trip meant they had to leave Lucy in Calpurnia's care, but the kid seemed to sense that something was out-of-the-ordinary.

"What you doing?"

"We're getting married," Boone told her.

He was in good spirits, relieved to finally be making things _honest. _Six might be one of those bohemian types who seemed to think holy matrimony was just a formality, but he'd been taught different. He wanted the piece of paper. He wanted everything to be official.

"Mwarried?" Lucy seemed more puzzled by this word than by her mother's medical terminology. "Why?"

"Because that's what mommies and daddies do."

"Except usually they do it before they start popping out babies," Six said, smirking.

Boone gave her a startled look. The subject of where babies come from was not one he'd been expecting her to broach in front of Lucy. They'd already set the kid a bad example and that precedent was going to bite him in the ass if he ever tried to lay down the law about "no sex before marriage" in Lucy's teen years. Of course, he'd have to discuss that with Six. He had the feeling her advice to Lucy would be more along the lines of "eat, drink and be merry" and "speak softly, but carry a very big stick".

On the road to the registration office, he took Six's hand and she smiled at him, lacing her fingers through his.

"If it's okay with you, Craig, I'd like to hyphenate."

Boone wasn't even sure he knew what that meant. Probably some newfangled invention of the Followers. He found that if a word had too many syllables in it, it was usually something those eggheads had made up to confuse him.

"Hyphenate? I don't know what that is, but it'll make you happy, then it's alright by me."

"Don't say 'yes' before you understand it, though. It's kind of...modern and you may not like it."

Six proceeded to explain how certain Pre-War books she'd read had argued that the tradition of a woman taking a man's name might not be good for equality between the sexes. It was like being a possession, they said, and in a new age, where women were not slaves to the household, it might be wise for a female to consider keeping her name or putting a hyphen (a little line) between her name and that of her intended partner.

"If we hyphenate the names, nobody has to give anything up. It doesn't have to be some kind of power-struggle."

Boone mulled it over, gripping her hand all the more tightly while he thought out the consequences. On one hand, he'd always been kind of fond of the idea that his wife would take his name. He wanted to be able to lay a claim on her, especially if any other men might be stupid enough to come circling.

On the other hand, he could understand why Six might not want to give up her name. She'd lost her freedom before and now she wanted equality. Boone-O'Shaughnessy. O'Shaughnessy-Boone. Kind of a mouthful, especially for a kid like Lucy, but she'd tough it out.

"Sure. Let's do the hyphen thing. You want it, you got it."

In return for the long name, he earned a long kiss. It seemed like a fair deal.

* * *

><p>Six returned from the honeymoon with her marriage license, a shiny new ring on her finger and a fresh new tattoo on her back. The tattoo radiated outward, from the center of her spine to her shoulder blades, black ink curling over her skin in long tendrils.<p>

When her clothes shifted against her skin, the tattoo ached, a reminder of her hours under the needle. It was a good kind of hurt, like the lingering soreness between her thighs, a result of her hours under the newly minted Mr. Craig Boone-O'Shaughnessy on their honeymoon night.

Boone had also decided to get inked, but his tattoo was much more subtle: two small numbers on the inside of his wrist – 6, 7.

Six had joked that he'd better leave room unless they broke the condom again and had an 8 and a 9 and Boone had deadpanned that he'd just continue listing numbers onto his forearm and that, if they were feeling real ambitious they could go all the way to his elbow.

In fact, he'd been so deadpan about it, she wasn't entirely sure he'd been kidding. But hopefully he was. She might be okay with a sister or a brother for Lucy, but she didn't plan on changing diapers for numbers 9 through 13.

Six's own tattoo had taken more time, not simply because its size and intricacy, but because it'd been done around the scars on her back, the letters 'VI' that Vulpes Inculta had carved there so long ago. The marks had faded to a shiny whitish-pink, but the skin had never been stitched together properly and so it'd healed unevenly, with crooked seams, upraised flesh that she could still read with her fingers. The tattoo grew out of this scar, a lush garden, its inky black vines hung with morningglories.

She'd chosen it with the intention of obscuring the scars, so that, at midnight, her husband would have something better to look at than another man's name carved into her back (the name of his rival and yet, in a strange way, also his unknowing ally, because Six doubts she would've said more than a few words to Craig back in Novac if they hadn't been united in their hatred of Legion). She'd thought that the tattoo would make the scars less noticeable, but the effect was something altogether different.

Instead of distracting from the scars, the tattoos had incorporated them into a grander and more intricate design. Looking at it, one couldn't forget the scars but one could see them in a wider perspective. Terrible things had happened. People had died – people she'd loved, people she'd hated, people who'd deserved better, people who'd deserved worse, people she'd never even met. Six had wasted years on vengeance and fool pride and made mistakes that she'd never be able to take back. And yet, in spite of all that, there was goodness and there was something left to hope for, something better than just surviving to the next sunrise.

She was lucky. More fortunate than she'd ever have guessed.

_And so it was that the Courier, who'd escaped a grave in Goodsprings, survived the Lottery at Nipton and broke free of a Legion slave collar, laid down her vengeance at last and began a new life, finding fulfillment in her work and comfort in her family. _

_Although the NCR continued to interfere in the affairs of the Followers of the Apocalypse, the truce held steady and Six never found cause to use Yes Man to activate New Vegas' Securitron army. _

_It was only years later, after the deaths of the Courier and the sniper, that their children would witness the clash of armies in the Mojave and see the NCR weakened in its conflict with the Eastern powers._

_It would be the quiet boy called Nine, not the clever girl Eight or bold, strange Seven, who would stumble upon his mother's secret defense and convince the Followers of the Northwest and their allies to cede from the NCR. _

_In this new world of the reclaimed West, fighting continued, blood was spilled, and many lived and died – just as they had in the Old World. Because war...war never changes. _


End file.
